


I Like the Nightlife Baby

by purpleandgold



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, brooklyn!!!, im sorry niall doesn't exist, some stuff abt alcohol so be aware, taxi fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:18:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7601365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleandgold/pseuds/purpleandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why mint?” he asks, choosing to ignore the comment about his cab because it only reminds him of what they’re really here for, reminds him that Louis and his cross-eyed giggle will be gone from his life in a matter of hours, if they’re lucky. He should be happy about that - should be celebrating.<br/>Instead he nudges Louis’ thigh with his own and lets his ice cream drip onto the faux-leather seat between them, trying not to think about how much the honey color reminds him of Louis’ skin. </p><p>the semi-Cinderella au where Louis' a drunk enigma and Harry's the taxi driver who's got to put up with him for one night.<br/>alternately titled "they say the neon lights are bright"<br/>kinda inspired by Perfect bc I like the thought of Harry and Louis going on midnight drives with the windows down</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a self-indulgent Brooklyn AU that I really didn't expect to turn out so long. I started writing it as a break from another fic I'm writing at the moment so I could work on my dialogue but it turned into this mess. so yeah, it's the first work I've published for this fandom (and published at all, really) so leave your honest opinion! hope you enjoy!  
> also: a spotify playlist of stuff I listened to while writing this/songs mentioned in the fic  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/bfr160918/playlist/6pwhgXYxlihxzFCSMno4zs

The clock on the dashboard reads twelve am exactly when it happens, green digits painting the taxi in a glaze of artificial light. Harry rubs his eyes absently, runs a hand through his hair, blinks. It’s not late for him, really - most of the time he’s driving until at least three, sometimes getting stragglers as late as four, but he feels sleep tugging at him regardless. It’s the one thing he can never get enough of these days. His sister Gemma thinks he should go to a doctor for it. Harry thinks she should fuck off. 

Not that he’d ever say that, of course; he loves Gemma and her pink hair and Tumblr-esque dinnertime stories too much to ever curse at her. But the sentiment remains. He hasn’t got money for a doctor at the moment (why else do you think I’d be driving a taxi at night, Gems?) and while it’s not something he’s ashamed of, constant reminders of the things he can’t afford have a way of grating on Harry’s nerves over time. 

The radio sputters, unknown drivers checking in from their various locations across the city. It’s a reminder that he’s only earned around fifty dollars so far tonight - not nearly enough for their groceries and rent and tuition and hair product. (He’d say that last one was only Gemma but it would be a lie; he’s got a mess of curls and it’s honestly a pain to deal with the frizz every day. Thus, they have hair gel allotted into their weekly budget.)

He twists the wheel tiredly and rolls to a halt beside a well-lit club. It’s snazzy, expensive-looking. He can hear a bass pumping from inside. It’s not the kind of place he’d frequent himself, but then again, he doesn’t frequent much of anywhere aside from his lecture halls and the tiny apartment he shares with Gemma. Well, and the taxi dispatcher place, of course. 

Fanciful, the club declares, in cerulean and yellow neon lights. He zeroes in on the entrance, picks a few targets. There’s a crowd of people around his own age by the front, some with drinks in hand and some merely shivering, wrapping flimsy cardigans tighter around their bare arms and crossing their skirt-clad legs in an attempt to block out the early May breeze. 

Spring in New York isn’t usually this cold. Harry’s only lived here for about four years, but even he knows that. The winter had lasted forever this year, though; he’d worn gloves every day until April just to prevent his hands from freezing to the wheel. 

It’s not too bad now. He’s got a decent heating system, after all, so he feels reasonably comfortable in a pair of jeans and a loose button-up, bright white in the club’s glow. 

One of the reasons he chose this job was for the lack of uniform. He’d applied to be any number of things when he’d arrived in the States for university - a doorman, a dogwalker, even a frycook at a posh restaurant on the Upper East Side - but he’d been rejected every time. Apparently his long curls were “unprofessional” and “unsuited for the workplace”. Here, though, Harry can drive nameless people across the city and his locks can live in relative peace in the darkness of his cab. It’s a good job. Lonely, maybe, but good overall. 

His whole body feels dry, heavy, worn-out. Gemma might have a point. He cuts the engine and rolls down the windows, leaning his head back on the seat and closing his eyes for just a second. At least one of the twenty-year-olds by the club is bound to need a ride, and Harry can rest until then. Just a second, he thinks. 

\--

The next thing he hears is a muted thump and a high-pitched giggle from the backseat. HIs eyes snap open and he sits straight up in his seat - shit, shit, he’s fallen asleep on the job and now there’s a stranger in his car and it could be a murderer or a rapist or -

“Oops!” the backseat cries cheerfully.

So. Not a murderer, then. Probably. 

“Er… Hi,” Harry says, not quite sure what else to add. It’s then that he realizes the doors are still locked; he’d had them shut while he took his little cat nap, certain that any sane person looking for a ride would think to tap on the glass before trying to get in. 

There’s another laugh from the back; it’s high, yes, but it’s definitely a man. Oh God. “You didn’t happen to come in through the window, did you?” Harry asks, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t come in through the window.”

The boy hums a bit. Something about the way his voice wavers reminds Harry of summer and fireworks on the grass in Prospect Park. It’s a strange thought.

“I’m a dolphin!” the boy says. “I dove in just like that!” He snickers to himself, makes a weird series of noises - presumably dolphin clicks, Harry thinks, although he’s never met a dolphin himself - before making a thumping sound that Harry knows from experience is caused by slamming one’s head against the headrest. “I’m very drunk.” 

Harry purses his lips at that. “No kidding, mate.”

“It’s okay! I like being drunk! ‘S all floaty and fun!”

“Alright, buddy, it’s time to buckle up. We’re gonna get you home so you can be floaty and fun at home. Sound good?”

“You’re talking to me like I’m a kid,” the stranger says, and Harry must be imagining it, but it almost sounds like he’s pouting. “And I should know, cause I’ve got six younger siblings. One, two, three, four, five, six!”

Drunk as he is, this guy is surprisingly endearing. Harry suppresses a grin and deepens his voice just for fun, because hey, why not? The guy’s too far gone to remember any of this tomorrow. Besides, Harry doesn’t get to see many kids on his rounds at two in the morning, usually, and he misses playing pretend. “Put on your seatbelt, please, sir,” he growls sternly before returning to his regular voice. “There, was that better? More like an army guy than a babysitter. I can be the sergeant and you can be the soldier, how’s that?”

The stranger giggles. “You’re very weird,” he says, but Harry can hear a metallic seatbelt sound and the murmurs of a little song (“buckle up, buckle up, I love seatbelts!”) behind him, so he figures it’s alright. He’ll take what he can get.

He pulls away from the curb and heads to the nearest intersection, swiping tiredly at his eyes and trying to imagine what his passenger looks like. He’s got a scruffy voice, Harry knows that for certain. And more than that - the stranger’s got a rather thick British accent, dropping his ‘t’s and elongating his ‘ah’s. They’re from the same place, then. Evokes images of a scrappy fighter, a little guy maybe, witha healthy amount of facial hair and fast feet. It’s a sexy thought. A sexy voice.

Of course, Harry really has no idea what this guy looks like, since they’ve got this policy on rearview mirrors and such. It’s meant to discourage ogling and try to ensure the comfort of the passengers, apparently, and while it does make sense, it also means Harry’s flying blind here. 

“Wow,” the voice says, giggling, and a hand reaches up to tap on the tinted glass between them. “Yooou’re very pretty!”

Harry sighs.

See, that’s the other problem with this policy: he may be unable to see his passengers, but they’re still able to see him. Makes for a lot of practice faking smiles on his part, mostly during rush hour when he’s been up all night and men in business suits who don’t seem to understand how traffic works blame him for their own spilled coffee. 

“Have you got green eyes?” the stranger says wonderingly. “I’ve got a green sweater. ‘S my favorite color!” Harry hears a soft sound near his ear, almost like the crinkle of fabric brushing against glass - like this guy really held up his own clothing to compare it with Harry’s eyes. “Look! Matchie-matchie! Pretty!”

_ Matchie-matchie. _ Harry doesn’t know what he did to get himself into this mess. “Thank you,” he murmurs finally, pasting a blank look on his face. He’s not sure the guy hears. 

“Har-ree Styyyyy-uls,” the voice says slowly, presumably reading the name off his ID on the back of the seat, and Harry is reminded of his goddaughter Lux learning to read. She’d spend ages on each page of her picture books, running her finger along the paper underneath the lines of text, little mouth moving silently as she tried to sound out the words. But then again, Lux was four at the time, and if Harry’s guessing correctly, the faceless guy in the back is probably around his own age. That’s at least twenty years of reading, then, and with that amount of practice he thinks this stranger should reading be a bit more advanced than sounding things out. But the customer is always right, of course, so he doesn’t voice that particular opinion.

“Harry Styles. Is that you?” the guy continues. “You’ve got very nice curls. Bounce bounce bounce!”

“Yes, that’s me,” Harry says wearily. “I’m sure you’ve got very bouncy hair yourself, Mr. -” He cuts himself off in surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“I’m Louis!” the voice cheers. “Louis, Louis, Louis! That’s me!”

“Lou-ie. That’s a French name, isn’t it? Are you French?” 

“No,” Louis says, and offers no further information. “What’s your car named?” 

“Um, the car doesn’t have a name.”

“What do you mean you haven’t named your car?” Louis asks, awarding the words the same sense of drama as if it were some kind of major scandal or maybe announcement of a third world war. 

“I mean that I haven’t named my car?” Harry replies, bemusement turning it into a question of sorts. 

“Well, that simply won’t do, Harold.” 

“Harry.”

“Harold. Harold, we’ve got to fix this. Does this car look like a Franklin to you?”

“Ah, no, not really,” Harry says.

Louis hums in agreement. “Yeah, I think your cab is more of a girl car. Not that someone named Franklin can’t be a girl, obviously, and not to excessively gender things, but this car is definitely female.”

Harry drives in silence for a bit, the only sound Louis’ fingernails clacking rhythmically against the glass partition as he thinks. “Maybe Shayla?” he mutters to himself. “Margaret?”

“Absolutely not. She’s not a Margaret,” Harry says immediately. 

“Thought you didn’t want to name your cab, Harold,” Louis says pointedly. Harry can almost see the smirk on his face. - although, of course, he can’t. 

Harry rolls his eyes and flicks the turn signal to switch lanes, preparing to go into the Battery Tunnel. Well, really it’s called the Ed Koch tunnel - it got renamed a year or so back - but while Harry may not be a born and bred New Yorker, he’s still Brooklyn enough to know the real names of NYC geography. 

“What do you think about Celeste?”

“Hmm. Celeste is more of a limo name, yeah? Like, I dunno, it’s a dainty kind of name. Posh and all that.” 

Three’s a pause where Harry assumes Louis is nodding his assent and then - “Nancy,” Louis hisses, inhaling sharply. “Nancy. This car is a Nancy.”

“Isn’t that an insult? Fairy, poof, fag, nancy. Same idea,” Harry frowns, but even as he says it he’s running his free hand along the dips of the passenger seat, ghosting over the windshield and flickering across the control panel and he feels it. The road thrums under his feet. Nancy. The wheel jerks in his hand. Nancy. The windshield wipers squeak. Nancy. 

It’s like Nancy’s chosen herself. Like Louis’ given her an option and she’s taken it, flown away with it, really. 

Nancy slides into the tunnel, yellow lights flashing by and illuminating the car in strips. Harry thanks his lucky stars for once that it’s late; when he does shifts earlier in the night it’s still packed. Now, though, it’s mostly empty. The dim light casts an orangey glow across his skin, nearly translucent in the light. He wonders if Louis can see his veins from the backseat. 

“Wow,” Louis says after a minute. “These are kinda like strobe lights if you think about it. Makes me kinda nauseous.”

Harry’s fingers clench on the steering wheel so hard he actually worries that he might break it. Great. Just what he needs. A puke-smelling cab and a broken wheel. That’ll cost about a million dollars in repair fees. “If you puke in my car, Louis, I am not responsible for what I do to you afterwards.” 

Louis laughs. “No, I’m not really sick. I never puke when I drink.” He pauses. “That sounds pretty kinky, though. ‘I am not responsible for what I do to you.’”

“We were literally just discussing vomit and you want to make an innuendo,” Harry says flatly. 

“You seem pretty worked up about this whole puke thing. Is that like a thing for you? Are you a squeamish kind of guy?”

“No, I’m not squeamish,” Harry says. “I just don’t like bad smells, okay? And puke smells pretty damn terrible.”

“Sounds pretty squeamish to me,” Louis says cheekily, and Harry loses it. 

“Wouldn’t sound weird to you if you didn’t have to spend half your time in a cramped space with the smell of ten million strangers’ sweat and burnt food and cheap cologne and foot cheese. I don’t need your vomit smell on top of that, Louis, and it’s  _ not  _ squeamish to want things to smell nice, okay?”

He doesn’t realize he’s raised his voice until he stops talking, fingers white on the wheel and breath coming fast. “Shit, didn’t mean to yell at you. Didn’t mean to curse either, that’s really unprofessional. I’m so sorry,” he says weakly. 

“‘S fine, yeah? You’ve got a lot of pent-up anger about this, clearly. It’s healthy to let all that stress out once in a while.” 

Harry exhales for maybe a full minute. 

“It’s not like I’m going to report you, mate. Ten bucks says I’m not even going to remember your name by the time the night is up, so don’t stress. Curse all you want. Sounds like you need it.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, feeling his shoulders sink back into his seat. “I kinda do.”

“So if you’re gonna rant about vomit, can I just take a moment to thank you for not having an airfreshener thingie in here?”

It almost surprises Harry when he laughs, like it’s been tugged out of his stomach by force. “You’re very welcome.”

“No, but really, Harold. Every other cab I’ve been in has got those damn airfreshener trees swinging from the rearview mirror and stinking up the whole place. They’re not even real trees, for fuck’s sake, they’re like fake little Christmas trees that smell like death. The worst ones are the kind that actually try to smell like something - like, I dunno, pine needles or peppermint. Because they never really smell like what they’re supposed to, do they?”

“Sometimes they do - ” Harry starts but Louis cuts him off.

“Harold. That was a rhetorical question.”

“Well I’ve driven more cabs than you’ve been in your whole life, so I’ve got more authority on this issue, haven’t I?”

Louis huffs audibly. “You may have more authority, but I have more  _ passion. _ ”

“Okay, Louis,” he says drily. “Go on with your passion about the scent of peppermint airfreshener being slightly closer to spearmint than it should be.” 

“No, I’m telling you!” Louis says loudly, voice earnest. It sounds like he’s moved up closer a bit to make his point clearer. Harry almost giggles at the thought of this random scruffy guy hanging off the edge of his seat to complain about airfreshener trees, of all things, but he figures Louis wouldn’t appreciate him making light of the situation; he holds it in instead. “You don’t believe me, but let me tell you. This thing has ruined the holidays for me. I can’t catch a whiff of a damn candy cane without having flashbacks of those maniacally swinging things that smell like Christmas got stuffed in a can and was left to die.”

Harry does laugh then, laughs so hard he falls forward and hits the wheel with his forehead, eliciting a pained honk from Nancy - which only serves to make him laugh harder. “Oh my god,” he wheezes, stomach muscles convulsing uncontrollably, “Lou, I’m driving, you can’t make me laugh like that when I’m  _ driving. _ ”

“Well, no one’s saying you had to laugh at my very real problems,” Louis says sulkily, but Harry hears him giggle softly as they slide out of the tunnel and into the cool air. Cool air that smells like sewage and asphalt, yes, but still cool air. Harry rolls down all the windows in a show of grandeur. Let Louis smell the real world for once instead of some Christmas-in-a-can, eh?

They slide through the toll booths without incident, Harry merging onto the highway with a careful look over his shoulder, when Louis speaks up again, not a trace of confusion in his voice. “Where are we going, Harold?”

Time stops. 

Holy shit.

“Holy shit,” Harry says dumbly. “Um. To my house, apparently.” He adds another “Holy shit” for good measure, because who cares about possibly offensive foul language when he completely forgot to even  _ ask _ where Louis lives before driving off on autopilot - God, he needs sleep. This can’t be healthy. Louis probably lives somewhere in the Bronx, for fuck’s sake, an hour away at least, and Harry’s wasted gas money and precious, precious time driving somewhere he shouldn’t be even though he desperately, desperately wants to keep going to his own flat - apartment - and collapse into bed and forget about this wretched night. 

Louis hums happily. “Okay.”

Well, that’s a bit unhelpful, Harry thinks, as he takes the next exit and prepares to turn around. Jesus. He’s never done this before, even on his very first day as a driver when he almost threw up on his passenger. How the hell did he manage to fuck up this badly? 

“No, it’s not really okay,” Harry says. He can’t quite make out the face of the guard standing at the toll booth, but he thinks he sees a raised eyebrow as the exact same cab returns less than two minutes later, this time going in the opposite direction. “We’ll go back to Manhattan, yeah? And then you can tell me where you live and I’ll take you home and then lose my job. It’ll be fine.” 

“Why would you lose your job for taking me to Brooklyn?” Louis asks serenely as they enter the Manhattan-bound tunnel. “That’s where I’m going.”

Harry wonders how much the repair costs would be if he drove Nancy at full speed into the side of the tunnel. He decides it’s probably not worth the hassle. 

\--

The second Harry emerges from the tunnel, almost blinded by the blinking stoplights of Lower Manhattan, he pulls over. Nancy lurches to a stop and Harry allows himself one second - two seconds actually, but he can’t bring himself to care - to just breathe. Relax. Inhale peace, exhale stress. Isn’t that what they always say in his yoga classes? 

“Do you need an inhaler?” Louis pipes up. “My sister has asthma.” 

The moment’s ruined. Here comes that stress again. He pinches the bridge of his nose in between his thumb and forefinger for another two seconds before answering in a measured voice, “Which sister? First or sixth?”

“Second,” Louis says. “Fizzy.”

“Seems like you should be the one named Fizzy.”

“Har har.” He’s clearly not impressed with Harry’s little joke. Well, he doesn’t have to put up with his own overly-energetic self at one in the morning. 

“Alright, let’s get out and discuss where you live,” Harry sighs, making no move to get up. His legs are just so heavy. Ugh.

There’s the sound of someone banging repeatedly on a car door, shortly followed by a whimper of distress. “Did you put the child lock on me, Harold?”

“That’s not my name.” There’s a smile on his face as he turns off the lock anyway. 

“You haven’t got a beard!” 

It’s the first thing Harry thinks to say as Louis emerges from the car, sleep-heavy limbs tugged to a standing position unwillingly. He’s actually very similar to the picture Harry’d had in his mind. He’s shortish but in a compact way, muscular thighs visible from beneath the hem of his - yes, green - hoodie. He’s got really bright blue eyes, glinting in the streetlight, and although Harry’s sure this fluorescent glare is washing out his own skin, Louis’ skin looks smooth and golden, tiny brown hairs lightly covering what Harry can see of his forearms beneath the sweatshirt like he’s been sprinkled with pixie dust. 

The only thing he got wrong was the way he’d expected Louis to be all angles, all sharp edges with untidy stray ends sticking out. Instead, the boy in front of him - man, Harry supposes, since Louis looks to be about his own age - has a soft look about him, rounded by the sweatshirt framing his only slightly-stubbly face. His hair is a bit unkempt, for sure, but it looks more fluffy than poorly groomed. If Harry had one word to describe him, it would be cuddly. 

That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Louis’ his passenger. Just his passenger. Um. 

Louis blinks at him languidly. “Ah, no?” he asks, and it takes Harry a second to remember what he was just saying. “Came out a while ago, mate. Although if you need a beard I know some lovely girls who’d be happy to help out.”

“No, no, I don’t need a beard,” Harry says. “Not that I’m not gay, I just thought you’d have more facial hair. You have the kind of voice that reminds me of guys with beards, I mean - oh bother, just forget I said anything.”

“Did you really just say ‘oh bother’?” Louis asks. There’s an impish smile quirking at the edges of his mouth. 

“Oh bother yourself,” Harry tosses back, before very forcefully and hopefully not obviously tearing his eyes away from Louis’ ankles. They’re just - they’re really fucking dainty, is the thing, and Harry should not be trusted with dainty things. He’s clumsy. He might break them. “Now, Louis. You’re not French, I remember that.”

“Very good.”

“And you live in Brooklyn.”

“No I don’t.”

“You literally just told me you live in Brooklyn.” 

“I told you I was  _ going _ to Brooklyn. I don’t  _ live _ in Brooklyn. There’s a difference.”

Harry wipes at the sleep-bogeys crusted in his eyes - gross - and sighs. “Alright, so, Louis, where do you  _ live _ ?”

“Doncaster.”

Jesus Christ. “Okay, I can work with that. Where’s your flight? JFK or LaGuardia? Although I’m pretty sure there are safety issues with flying when you’re drunk, aren’t there?”

“Why are you trying to take me to an airport?”

“If you live in the UK I’m assuming you have a flight home at some point, yes?”

“No? I’m going to Brooklyn, Harold.”

“Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“I  _ did _ ! I told you when we were in the tunnel. Have you not been listening?”

Harry restrains himself from kicking Nancy’s front wheel next to where he and Louis have been leaning against her. She doesn’t deserve that. Neither do his shoes, for that matter. They’re gold - spraypainted, alas - and he hasn’t got the money to buy more paint if it wears away at the toes. He makes the executive decision to keep his temper in check instead.

He should get an award for this at the end of the night, honestly. 

“Do you know where in Brooklyn you’re going?”

“Me mate Zayn’s house.”

“Do you know where Zayn lives?”

“With me mate Liam!”

Harry grits his teeth. Someone is not going to make it out of this little exchange alive, and Harry’s not sure at the moment whether he’d rather kill Louis or himself. Odds are on Louis right now.

He breathes heavily. “Do you have Liam and Zayn’s address?”

“No.”

Well then. Harry flings his hands down in defeat. “How am I supposed to get you home, Louis?”

“I’ve no idea,” Louis says with surprise, as if only just noticing their predicament. He looks around curiously, nose all scrunched up and eyes narrowed to slits as if the answer might present itself, might scurry out of the shadows and hop into his mind if he squints hard enough. 

It’s only a slightly adorable look. Slightly. 

Simultaneously, they slouch against Nancy’s car. Louis seems to curl in on himself; he’s crossed his arms and inadvertently enveloped himself in green so that Harry can hardly see his face. 

“D’you have a map?” Louis offers. “I might be able to identify the area, at least.” 

“That’s a good idea,” Harry says, stunned, and pushes himself off the car to go rummage in the glove compartment because, yes, now that he thinks about it, he does have a map. Why didn’t he think of that?

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Louis grumbles. Harry pretends he doesn’t hear it. He’s got the excuse of being halfway stuck inside a cab, after all. 

“Nice jeans, by the way,” Louis calls after a second. “We’re both wearing skinnies!”

Harry can’t exactly see Louis’ pants, of course, but he shoots back a muffled “I like yours too!” just to be polite. He never knows how to deal with compliments; it’s easier just to return them and deflect the attention, even if it’s blatantly obvious what he’s doing. Like now, for example, when his head is buried in the cab and only his legs are visible from the outside - ah. So that was why Louis commented. 

“Thanks!” Louis says proudly. “They’re my fuck-me jeans!”

Harry decides not to answer that. He also decides that this position is not safe. The blood rush can cause all sorts of heart problems, apparently. 

After tossing aside about ten pounds of junk - a total of seven parking receipts, three tampons (Gem’s, he hopes), a free pass for a movie theater in Chicago (Harry’s never been to Chicago), two unidentified keys, and a half-eaten bagel with mold splotched across it in an intriguing sage color - he triumphantly unearths a ratty street map. 

“Bought this when I first moved here,” he tells Louis, carefully extracting himself without getting his hair caught in that annoying little handhold thing by the door. What is that thing called? What does it even do? Not once in his entire cabbying career has it been used for anything other than ripping out his hair by accident. ‘Accident’. He knows there’s an evil spirit in there, his own personal Peeves hell-bent on making him bald. 

“When you moved here? From where?”

“Can you really not tell?” Harry asks, smiling in surprise. “I’m British. Came here like four years ago.”

“ _ Really _ ,” Louis says, and it’s not a question but it’s filled with curiosity and a peculiar sense of wonder that Harry feels only this boy would apply to such a simple matter. It’s not like he was saying he’d moved here from outer space or something. “I never would have thought.”

“Is my accent that terrible? Have I turned into a New Yorker now?” Harry asks, and the smile is still there, but he feels a bit distant just saying it. The truth is that, as much as he loves this sleepless city, sometimes he misses the soft nights and familiarity of Holmes Chapel, his hometown. He’s not truly a new Yorker, not possessing that brash hustle-and-bustle mentality they’ve all seem to got here. He’s more content to sit and observe. 

But then again, he doesn’t quite belong to the bedtime-at-ten countryside anymore. He’s a bit in-between at the moment. He’s not sure where he’d rather be, who he’d rather be. 

“It’s not that,” Louis says. “I noticed your accent, of course I did, I just assumed you’ve got like British parents or something. You seem like you’ve been here all your life.”

Harry spreads the map across the hood of the car and they cluster around it. “How d’you mean?”

Louis traces the outline of Brooklyn with his slender finger. There’s a shadow of ink on the knuckles of his left hand; Harry’s about to ask him about it when the sleeve of his sweatshirt falls back down and covers it, the ends frayed and worn. Well-worn. Well-loved. “You have that confidence. Can-do attitude, you know?”

Harry nods. There’s not much he can say to that, as he’s not sure it’s really true. But whatever, it’s not important. Louis doesn’t care about his split between countries, his life spliced messily across miles of vast ocean. Harry doesn’t care much about it either. All he cares about is finding Louis’ address so he can go home and sleep.

Mostly.

“Hey, that’s my uni!” he exclaims suddenly: Louis’ finger has come to rest somewhere in the vague area of Fort Greene.

“You go to Pratt?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirms, then braces himself for the weird looks. He always gets them when he tells people where he goes to uni - college, sorry. There’s that British side coming out again. It’s just that Pratt’s an art school, is the thing, and if Harry wasn’t already the stereotype of struggling college student trying to make it big in New York, he knows that’s what he turns into in the eyes of anyone he tells. 

“Nice,” is all Louis says, alongside an appraising smile. “Bet you’d be a good artist.” He turns back to the map and that’s that.

“So have you got any idea where to start looking? Narrow it down, maybe?” Harry asks tentatively after Louis has traced the entire island of Manhattan three times.

Louis turns to him, head tilted up - and wow, he has to look up to look at Harry. The way it makes the line of his throat look delicate and strong all at once, veins and skin meshing together seamlessly below the surface, is definitely not attractive. Nope. Not even the slightest bit. 

Louis grins. Right from then Harry knows it’s not good news he’s about to hear. “To be honest, mate, I haven’t the slightest idea. This all looks the same to me.”

“Just try for like a minute more, okay?” Harry pleads. Louis rolls his eyes but turns back to the map, brow furrowing as he enters a state of intense concentration. 

Another minute passes, then two. Harry’s starting to get the slightest bit cold, fingers itching for something warm - like Louis’ sweatshirt pocket, his mind whispers unhelpfully - to stuff themselves in, when Louis finally makes a noise of glee. “Harold, I’ve got it! It’s here. It’s definitely here. In between a park and a little graveyard!”

“Really? Oh, thank God. I’m so glad you found it,” Harry says, feeling himself sag with relief as he moves to peer at the place Louis’ pointing.

“I’m really proud of myself,” Louis says excitedly. Harry’s still bent unmoving over the hood of the car. “Didn’t know I could read maps that well! Maybe I should be a cartographer someday! That’s what they do all day, right? Just read maps and draw them and go on adventures for uncharted territory and stuff. I could do that! And you get paid for it! Amazing.”

Harry doesn’t answer. Louis pokes his head. “Harold?” 

He straightens up and ignores the way his back cracks alarmingly. “Louis.” 

“What’s wrong? Is it somewhere you can’t drive to? Is it too far away or summat?”

“Louis, that’s in Pennsylvania. You managed to find fucking Pennsylvania on a map of New York City. That place you’re pointing to - it’s gotta be at least a hundred miles away. How in God’s name did you do that?”

“Oh.” The grins falls from his face, replaced by a sheepish look. “Um. That’s uncharted territory, I guess? My cartographer instincts coming out?”

Harry can’t help but snort a laugh. His life is a fucking mess. ‘Cartographer instincts.’ Sure. Why the fuck not?

But alas, laughter can’t solve everything. A plan must be made. He can’t leave Louis now - he’s sure to get a horrible review for leaving his customer stranded after attempting to drive them to his own house, and besides, he doesn’t fancy the idea of setting this kid loose on the streets of Manhattan in his clearly inebriated state. He’s not sure whether he’d be more worried for Louis or for the people Louis would meet. 

So - a plan. “Okay, so you said you wanted to go on the Brooklyn Bridge. We’ll start with that, okay? See if you recognize any of the areas nearby.”

It is what it is. 

\--

He doesn’t say anything when Louis clambers into the passenger seat after they throw away their frankly useless map in a nearby trashcan and wander back to where Nancy’s stowed on the shoulder of the road. It’s not a big deal, really - some passengers go in the front automatically, so it’s not like it’s particularly unusual to have someone this close to him as he drives. It’s completely the same this time. He tries to ignore the surge of nerves in his stomach. It’s nothing. 

They’re driving over the Brooklyn Bridge, Nancy gliding over rhythmic bumps in the road and jostling them every few feet, when Louis shouts. 

“Harry! Harold!”

“Jesus Christ, Lou,” Harry hisses, hand flying up to his mouth. It’s a good thing the road’s mostly deserted; he’d swerved madly, switched a full lane over when Louis startled him. They’re almost driving on the shoulder now, speeding along right next to the cables of the bridge, a strip of water looking close enough to touch if you just leaned out through the window. “What - ”

“Harry, we’ve got to stop the car,” Louis says, sitting straight up and unbuckling his seatbelt. His fingers move swiftly along the cloth - it’s dark so he’s only feeling for the buckle, Harry knows, but it looks like he’s running his hands over his own crotch and the way his head is tilted back, lips slightly parted and eyes wild with excitement -

He looks away. “That’s mad. I’m not stopping.”

“Nancy wants you to,” Louis protests. “Nancy wants to rest and let us get out and have fun.” With that, his fingers scrabble towards the child lock and the door of the cab clicks open, wind roaring outside and slamming it partially closed again.

“Goddamnit - ” Harry yelps, grinding to a halt and barely even checking behind him to see if there’s anyone else in his lane. He drags the car over to the shoulder - they’re past the highest point of the bridge now, still pretty far up up there but much closer to the Brooklyn side - and furiously turns to face his passenger. “What the fuck were you thinking, you can’t just a door in the middle of the highway! We’re on a fucking  _ bridge _ , Lou, you could’ve gotten killed!”

Louis just beams at him. “You’re hot when you swear,” he says, completely unabashed, and then leaps from the car and scampers into the darkness. 

“I can’t just leave the cab, for fuck’s sake!” Harry yells after him. He groans, banging his head against the wheel and squeezing his eyes shut. “Tell me this is a dream, please, it’s just a dream,” he chants. “Just a dream. When you make up it’ll all be over.”

The wind slams Louis’ door shut with a crash. He’s alone in a cab with his very drunk passenger god knows where, roaming along the edge of a bridge in the middle of the night - ah, shit. 

He’s throwing his door open in a flash, sprinting to the edge. There’s a metal railing, but it’s about three feet high and he’s seen Louis’ legs; there’s no way a fence that tiny could stop him if he tried to get over. “Louis! Lou, where are you?” he cries desperately, peering down over the edge. Fuck - it’s really, really far. 

“Relax, Harold,” a voice says in the dark, and he could swear his heart stops. “I’m not that dumb. I can take care of myself, you know.” Louis appears over his shoulder, baggy hoodie framing his face like a round green halo. Somehow the soft fabric makes his bone structure seem even sharper in comparison. 

“Clearly you can’t,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Jesus. Thought you’d jumped over for a second there.”

“Hey, hey. Harold,” Louis says seriously, placing a hand on his arm and gently but firmly turning the taller boy around to face him. “Iwould never do that. I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to come out here for a moment. I’m sorry.”

“Why in God’s name would you want to - ” Harry cuts himself off abruptly.

Louis cocks his head at him, chin jutting out curiously. “You look queasy.”

“I, um - ” Now that the initial fear of losing Louis - his passenger, he corrects - is gone, he’s noticing just how flimsy that railing is. It’s basically just a metal string at waist height, twirled so thin it’s waving gently in the breeze. And it doesn’t block any of the view, either - Harry can see the whitecaps on the waves a good hundred feet below. A drop like that would be fatal for sure. He swallows hard. “I’m - not really that good with heights,” he finishes lamely. 

“Just a few minutes ago you were warning me how much you hate puke,” Louis notes. “I’m guessing now would be a good time to ensure your dinner doesn’t make a reappearance, hm?”

“Didn’t eat dinner,” Harry says hoarsely.

Louis sucks his teeth, face warping cutely into a grimace. Harry curses his nauseous mind. “That’s worse,” he says knowingly. “There’s no grosser feeling than being sick on an empty stomach.” 

Harry can barely nod as the pavement sways beneath him - well, it’s not really pavement, he notes as he looks down, which, in hindsight, was a terrible idea. His worn leather boots are wobbling precariously over a ground made of thin metal, diamond-shaped gaps between the crosshatching strips revealing the water below. Fuck. He’s probably bright green by now.

“But I think that’s a problem for later, yeah?” Louis says, and then there’s a firm hand on his waist and he’s being ushered along the passageway, eyes forced upward as he moves uphill.

“Louis, what are you  _ doing _ ?” Harry hisses, arms jutting out to grab the railing and stop himself somehow because, no, in no way is  _ going higher _ going to help his  _ fear of heights _ , goddamnit.

“Careful there,” is all Louis says, and his hand darts out to latch onto Harry’s flailing arm. It’s a good thing, too, because of course Harry had forgotten he’s too tall to actually reach the railing and his little thrown-off-balance moment had almost had him tumbling off the side of the bridge. But Louis is there - of course, Harry thinks, of course this guy would have a heroic streak and reflexes better than his own even while blackout drunk - and his hand feels like a little wamn beacon in Harry’s hand. 

He wonders distractedly whether ‘beacon’ can ever be applied to bridges or if it just applies to lighthouses. He also wonders whether Louis would push him off if he hurled on him. He’s vaguely certain that the answer to both of these questions is no. 

“What I’m doing is helping your fear, Harold,” Louis continues when he’s got them both stabilized. “You can hold me hand as long as you need. We’re just gonna walk up to the top. Take our time nice and slow, alright?”

“Jesus Christ,” Harry mutters, but the toe of the his boots nudges forward a little, and then a little more, and then he’s taking a huge fucking step and praying the bridge doesn’t collapse under his weight. It doesn’t.

“Good lad,” Louis murmurs from behind him, and he feels his hand get a little squeeze. “One step closer to being Harold Styles, taxi driver extraordinaire who is no longer afraid of heights.”

Harry almost rolls his eyes. “Harry,” he corrects instead, and then he’s walking fully. It’s short strides still, and it’s not as if his lungs don’t seize up every time his foot lands, but they’re making steady progress, they are. 

“Imagine if someone saw us,” Louis giggles once they’re almost at the highest point, the road beginning to flatten under their feet. There’s been a few flashes of light so far, a few blasts of sound from cars speeding towards them in the dark, but it hasn’t affected their climb aside from having to take a minute to steady themselves as the ground rocks beneath them. “Two guys in their twenties just out for a stroll on the Brooklyn bridge at two in the morning, one plastered and the other a taxi driver from Bay Ridge.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke,” Harry gets out through his tight chest, and he can tell Louis is pleased he’s not too afraid to answer because he gives a little swat to his back with their still-joined hands. 

“You’re doing very well, Harold,” he’s informed. “Just about thirty paces more and then we can stop.”

Just thirty paces. Harry puts one step in front of the other, swaying slightly. His muscles tense even more with each stuttered movement, hand clenching around Louis’ smaller one every time his foot connects with the ground. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six. Twenty-five. Twenty-four. 

By the time he gets to where it levels out, he’s breathing raggedly, hand locked in a vice grip and face burning. He’s more paralyzed with sheer stomach-aching humiliation, the kind of embarrassment that creeps up into your throat and chokes you, than he is with fear - because how stupid is he, to be afraid of heights? To be a grown man who can’t walk thirty steps without feeling like he’s going to pass out. Having to hold Louis’ hand like a kid crossing the street with his  _ mother. _

Where’s the diaper? Does he need one of those too? he thinks self-deprecatingly. 

Louis moves to stand next to the railing, fingers curling around the cord and upper body leaning slightly over the edge. Harry looks away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers miserably.

“No need to be sorry,” Louis says easily.

“But I’m acting like a baby. It’s not even rational.”

“Name one fear that’s rational.”

“Yeah, but - we’re not even that high, it’s not like we’re going to accidentally fall off. I’m not dumb enough for that. I can’t control it, that’s all. So I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Don’t ever feel embarrassed of your own feelings. It’s not like you can control them. You just said that yourself.” 

“Still - ”

“Still my arse.” Louis cuts him off. “Shut up. You went through all this suffering to get here and you’re not even going to look at the stars?”

Harry huffs a sigh, and Louis turns to look at him. He can see the shorter boy’s mouth drop open in surprise even in the darkness. Probably because now that the adrenaline from fear has worn off, he’s shaking like a leaf in the breeze up here. 

“You’re cold,” Louis states. It doesn’t seem to be a question.

“Um, yes, I am.”

“D’you want my sweater?” He tugs it over his head in one smooth move, head disappearing from sight for a split second before he pops back up, grinning, and folds the green material into a semi-neat square. “I’m sweltering meself.”

Harry makes no move to reach for it.

“Oh come on, Harold. Stop being so stoic and masochistic. You’re freezing your balls off; I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”

Harry rolls his eyes and grumbles a begrudging ‘thank you’ before reaching out to snag the fabric from Louis’ outstretched arms. He tugs it over himself - it smells really good, surprisingly. It’s hard to place but he thinks that might be wood? There’s definitely a hint of weed in there, but it’s far overpowered by apple and peppermint - like real, not-artificial-Christmas tree peppermint. He hopes his discreet sniffing is actually discreet. He doubts it is. 

“Looks good on you,” Louis says, eyes twinkling in the dark, and it’s then that Harry focuses on him. Without the sweatshirt to soften the lines of his face, his cheekbones are even more prominent. He’s wearing a loose gray tank top that’s got holes cut out where the sleeves would be, exposing his tan sides. (Tan after this winter? If anyone could do it, it’s Louis, Harry supposes.) And, well, now that Harry can actually see his ass without the sweatshirt hanging over it, Louis’ “fuck-me-jeans” seem a lot more effective. Damn.

Harry’s not sure what to say - he probably would’ve blustered out another ‘thank you’ and hidden his face in the sweatshirt, but luckily Louis doesn’t give him the chance to respond before he’s tugging his arm and moving to sit down smack in the middle of the wobbling metal path. “Alright, now that you’re warm, it’s time for stage two of the plan.” 

“The hell is this?” Harry sputters as he falls sloppily to sit beside Louis. “I didn’t agree to a stage two!”

“Technically you didn’t agree to a stage one, either,” Louis notes, before lying back and pushing Harry back too, in effect, since their hands are still intertwined. “Here, time for some star watching. Let’s do a Fault-in-our-Stars kinda position - you go here and I’ll lie next to you so we can talk.” He maneuvers himself so he’s lying down in front of Harry, sending the bridge swaying precariously. Harry fights the urge to scream. 

“We’re literally right in the middle of the walkway. What if someone comes and has to get by?”

Louis lifts his head (abs abs abs! Harry’s brain screams) to level him with an upside-down but still very effective sass-filled look. “‘What if someone comes’,” he repeats. “Honestly, Harold. Do you even listen to yourself speak?”

Harry flicks him on the forehead and settles down, stretching his legs out along the metal slats and grasping the sides firmly with both hands. His head falls back gently on the ground and he makes sure to look up instead of to the side, where he’s guessing there’s just an open space leading to the water below, since the railing (if it can even be called a railing) is higher up. Yeah. He’ll focus on the sky, thanks. 

They lay there in silence for a minute, just listening to the creaking of the metal around them and the occasional rumble of a passing car. Harry wonders if his pounding heart is audible; it sure feels like it. 

But never mind that. He can do this. It’s not like if the walkway falls through he’ll fall to his death or anything. It’s not like they’re over a hundred feet above water. It’s not like his bodily systems are slowly shutting down because he can barely breathe because  _ they’re so fucking high up, holy shit, they’re going to die.  _

“Louis, fuck,” he says, clenching his teeth. “I don’t know if I can stay like this. We’re fucking rocking with the wind up here.”

Louis twists around to look at him serenely. “What’s your favorite Disney movie, Harold?” 

“What the fuck? I’m suffering here and you want to talk about Disney?”

“What’s your favorite Disney movie, Harold?” Louis repeats. 

“Oh, I don’t know, any one where they don’t  _ fucking die _ from lying on a bridge in the middle of the night!”

“Just answer the question, for god’s sake!” Louis should be angry. Harry’s being rude and overbearing and annoying and Louis should be angry, but instead his eyes are sparkling with amusement - and it doesn’t seem to be amusement at him, really, or at least not at him in an unkind way. 

Harry’s not making any sense. He breathes. What  _ is _ his favorite Disney movie? 

He mulls it over a bit before answering this time. “I’d have to go with Aladdin.”

Louis hums and nods, the edges of his fringe tickling Harry’s cheek. “What if we were in Aladdin right now? Like if we were the characters, if it were possible for us to go back in time and to the Middle East.”

"And who'd you be in that situation?" 

"Well, you certainly wouldn't be Aladdin. Proper Jasmine-length hair you've got there, you posh princess."

Harry doesn't mind Louis calling him princess as much as he thinks he should. As it is he only feels himself warm all over, not unpleasantly, and his tense muscles start to relax for the first time since he'd stepped onto this damn bridge. The metal slats digging into his back seem less noticeable, for once, seemingly cushioned by the fuzzy fabric of Louis' sweater, and he's hardly even bothered by the swaying beneath him when he laughs.

"Don't act like you'd be Aladdin then either. You're the monkey for sure."

Louis' hand flops up in an aborted movement - he probably meant to slap Harry's shoulder before realizing it would shake the bridge too much. Harry's grateful for it. He’s also grateful that Louis bites back whatever comment he had, because really. He  _ is _ like a more-human version of Aladdin’s mischievous monkey. 

"I did quite like Jasmine," Harry says thoughtfully. “Her whole 'I am not a prize to be won' spiel was quite influential as a kid."

"When did Aladdin even come out? ‘92 or summat? Were there a lot of lot of street rats trying to claim your heart at the tender age of not-even-born?"

"How do you know I'm not twenty-four?"

"It's all the wrinkles, love."

Harry squawks.

"'M just kidding, I'm just kidding. Relax! You just told me you were in uni, though, so I was guessing you're maybe twenty?" Louis asks.

"Spot on."

Louis' not even saying anything and he can tell there's a self-satisfied grin on his face for having been right for once - wait.

"You liar," Harry says indignantly, as he's just remembered something rather contradictory to Louis' smugness. "You didn't guess. You saw my birthday, didn't you, it's on my ID in the car."

Louis refuses to reply. Instead, he adopts an almost sickeningly sweet baby voice and serenades Harry with Aladdin lyrics he’d almost forgotten: “One jump ahead of the slowpokes, one skip ahead of my doom.” 

“‘M not a slowpoke,” Harry grouses, but he lets it go. “What's yours then?"

Louis doesn't even have to think before he's turning his head, nose almost brushing that soft patch of skin just behind Harry's ear, and singing - yelling, really - "bippity boppity boo!"

"Cinderella, then, I take it," Harry says drily after rubbing at his ear (he notices the way Louis' eyes track his hand as it relinquishes its death grip on the edge of the walkway).

"It's a bit odd, isn't it, that we've both got that rags to riches kind of idea as our favorite." Harry says quietly, almost bashfully, and there's something about the almost self-deprecating tone to his voice that Louis seems to take offense at.

"I don't think it's odd at all. Everyone's got dreams of becoming a princess - or a prince, for that matter - overnight. Don't have to put in any work and then - shazam, abracadabra, whatever it is - you're rich and happy and all your problems are gone forever. It's a nice thought, isn't it? A night of magic and escape and true love and everything's changed forever."

They lapse into a comfortable kind of silence. There’s a little hole in the metal beams above them and if Harry squints he can make out more stars than he’s ever seen in a New York CIty sky, sparkling whimsically like someone’s just tossed a jar of silver glitter every which way and made a mess across the midnight blue. It’s calm. It’s peaceful in a place Harry never expected it to be, a hundred or so feet above the East River and its polluted, perilous waters. Here in the quiet, his thoughts weave and twirl on a whim like Louis’ drunken footsteps. 

“Lou, why did you get so drunk tonight?”

Instantly he knows he shouldn’t have asked. Louis tenses next to him, draws his legs up and moves to sit with his legs over the edge so their heads aren’t in their little cradle anymore, aren’t sharing the same air. 

“I’m sorry,” he amends quickly. “It’s none of my business, I shouldn’t’ve asked.”

There’s a pause. “It’s fine,” Louis says. “It’s a shitty reason.” He gives the kind of laugh that’s more of a forced rush of air, an expulsion of faux-bravery from nervous lungs, than anything else. “It’s no big deal, really. Just being whiny.”

Harry doesn’t call him out on his bullshit. Instead, he adopts a purposefully-annoying voice and parrots Louis’ own words back at him. “Don’t ever feel embarrassed of your own feelings. It’s not like you can control them, after all, so of course it’s a big deal. You’ve got to let them all out somehow.”

Louis whines and swats Harry’s head weakly. His hand lands blindly on Harry’s face instead, thumb squishing his lower lip. He fights the urge to stick out his tongue and lick it; he imagines Louis wouldn’t react to that too well. 

“Do I really sound that pretentious?” Louis asks, astounded. “God. That’s awful, that is.”

“No, it was really quite helpful,” Harry says sincerely. “Gave me confidence, it did.”

“Are you suggesting I become a motivational speaker, then, Harold?”

“We were on a different topic, if my memory serves me correctly.” 

“‘If my memory serves me correctly,’” Louis repeats under his breath. “And you say you’re not a princess.”

They don’t speak for a bit; the air feels charged between them. Harry hopes he won’t evade the question. He knows it was wrong to ask, that it’s none of his business as a cab driver to ask his passengers personal questions. But lying here in the middle of the night on the Brooklyn Bridge, Harry feels less like a cab driver and more like - 

He doesn’t feel more like Harry the uni art student. He doesn’t feel like Harry the younger brother. He feels like someone who would walk along a bridge at three in the morning just for kicks - like someone Louis would answer if he asked invasive questions. 

He’s not expecting it when he hears Louis’ voice again, slight vibrations running from Louis’ back to Harry’s own through where their shoulders are touching, a current of neon warmth passing between them. 

“It’s a bit of a combination of things,” he says. “A bunch of little problems piling up one on top of the other. The straw that broke the camel’s back, if you will.”

Harry doesn’t dare speak lest he break the heavy silence that’s begun to weigh on them. He settles for pressing his back farther into the metal below him and nodding slightly.

“First it’s my job. I’m a lawyer, you know, working with kids in abusive homes and stuff like that, and they moved me down here to a new country with three new cases, and they’re all absolutely horrifying. I haven’t even met the kids in these situations yet, but it just grates on me so badly and it’s just - so, so much. It’s shit for me to feel this way, though. It’s not like I don’t love my work or that I’m not grateful to have this job, because I am. Here I am complaining about how much paperwork I have and how bad it makes me feel to see this kind of stuff happening, yet I’m not the one that needs help. It’s just - I can’t explain it. It’s just a lot, like I said.”

Harry can’t even answer this time even if he’d wanted to, because of fucking  _ course  _ Louis, with his bright eyes and bright giggle and bright sense of adventure, works with kids. And he doesn’t just work with them. No, he saves them, tries to make their lives better.

And of course he has the right to be stressed about work. It’s just a reminder that he’s human. Hell, Harry hates his job half the time, and he’s sure it’s not half as much work or emotional fatigue as Louis has to deal with. 

“That’s not a shitty reason at all,” he gets out thickly. It seems to be all he can say. 

A car whizzes by then, headlights glancing momentarily over the little bubble they’ve created for themselves, and Harry can almost see the rose of Louis’ blush in the iridescent light. 

Louis clears his throat. “So there’s that - stress from work - but mostly it’s that my two best mates share a flat, and I’ve moved in with them.” 

“That sounds fun,” Harry says hopefully, but the frustrated sigh he gets in response kind of squashes his optimism. 

“It’s not that it’s not fun, it’s just - well, Zayn and Liam - those are the mates - they’ve been dancing around each other for years. I’ve been trying to get them together since high school, but of course I was overseas so I couldn’t do much of anything. And now I’m here and I’ve fucked things up for them. It’s all gone rubbish and I didn’t even do anything, but they’re not talking to each other and they’re having rows over the dumbest things. It’s like our flat is a minefield and you’ve got to go tiptoeing around or risk being blown to bits.”

_ Overseas _ . What does that mean? Harry decides not to ask. 

Louis runs his hand through his fringe in a futile gesture (it’s still just as messy as it was before) and lets his hand drop in frustration. “If they’re not meant to be, they’re not meant to be. I don’t mean to force them into anything. But I know for a fact that Liam’s been crushing on Zayn for  _ years  _ and I’m pretty sure it goes the other way, too, but they refuse to talk about it. And I’d hate to think that I messed things up for them, you know?”

Harry swings his legs thoughtfully. “From what you’ve said I don’t think there’s really anything you can do.”

“That’s _ super  _ helpful, thank you ever so much, Harold.”

“No, I mean, like it’s not your fault if they’re awkward around each other. And neither of them seem to blame you for their weird dynamic. That’s their own issue that they need to work out, right? So there’s really nothing you can do but be supportive and wait for them to work their shit out.” 

“Did you know before I met you I hadn’t spoken to someone with a British accent in weeks?” Louis asks after a pause. 

Harry glances at him with surprise. “Really? What about your flatmates? Weren’t they from Donny?”

“Nah,” Louis laughs. “Didn’t I tell you? The reason I know Brooklyn is because I used to come down here every summer and meet Li. We’re cousins; practically brothers by now. We shared a room for two months each year before I’d have to pack up and go home. He’s a true Brooklynite. So’s Zayn, for that matter. I'm just a part time kinda guy.” 

“Not anymore you aren’t,” Harry points out. 

“Guess not,” Louis says in his most British-sounding accent, and the smile he gives Harry seems genuine if a bit smaller than Harry’s come to expect from this bubbly boy.

It’s funny. They’re two maybe-a-little-homesick British boys on their way to becoming real New Yorkers. Here he is suspended in the air, on the very edge of danger, next to a loose cannon of a person, and he’s never felt more balanced. He’s smack dab in the middle of two blocks of land. Equally far from each, you could say, or maybe equally close. But he feels no urge to get to one or the other; he’s content to sit beside Louis and swing his legs and watch the swirl of the stars. 

That is, until he remembers something very important. 

“Nancy - oh my God, Nancy! We just left her there, Louis! What if she gets hit?”

“She won’t, you parked on the shoulder,” Louis assures him, but it does nothing to assuage Harry’s nerves. “It’s fine, really, Harry. I did check to make sure she was all the way over before I dragged you up here, you worrywart. Give me a bit of credit.”

“I do give you credit! I give you all the credit. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And you didn’t drag me here. I walked all by myself.”

“That you did,” Louis says, a note of pride entering his voice, and it warms Harry even more than the sweater that’s tucked around his face. He swings his legs one more time and stands up gingerly, resting his weight not on the barely-there railing but on Louis’ bare shoulder, hot to the touch. He doesn’t even cringe when the walkway sways under his feet.

“Let’s go find some food, then, monkey boy.”

“Fuck you,” Louis mutters under his breath, but he takes Harry’s hand and hoists himself up anyway, and then they’re off on another adventure. 

\--

“Nah,” Louis says when they pass Nancy - securely tucked on the side of the road as promised - and Harry makes a move to get off the walkway.

“What do you mean, ‘nah’?” 

“Nah.”

“You’re probably the most confusing person I’ve ever met,” Harry grumbles. 

It prompts an indignant screech from the confusing person in question. “Excuse me,” he says dramatically, giving Harry’s back a little nudge to convey just how irritated he is by such a slanderous comment. “I am just a kind gentleman trying to feed you. Part of the reason you were sick was because you were hungry.”

“Kind gentleman my arse,” Harry replies. “You just want ice cream.”

Louis scoffs from behind him.

“And no, the reason I was sick was because I was a hundred and thirty-fucking-five feet above the East River and I’m deathly afraid of heights.”

“You’re still probably a hundred thirty-five feet above the East River,” Louis points out. “Maybe more like ninety-five at this point, but still ridiculously high.”

“Well I’m not scared  _ now _ .”

He should not have said that; he can practically hear the smugness dripping from Louis’ voice when he says “Dare I say, young Harold, that stages one and two of Louis and Harry’s Master Plan To Get Harold Over His Fear Of Heights worked?”

“That name seems to imply that I had a hand in making the plan, Lewis,” Harry says, but he’s smiling; it’s a good thing Louis can’t see. 

“Details,” says Louis dismissively. “Now, would you say you’re not-scared enough for stage three?”

The second a bewildered “yes” falls out of Harry’s mouth, Louis’ screaming “DUCK!” and there’s a rush of air over his bent head, a flash of black jeans and exposed stomach and - 

“Oh my God, Louis, did you just jump over my  _ head _ ? And  _ land _ ? On a two-foot wide strip of metal ninety-five feet above water?”

Louis, now standing directly in front of him and smoothing down his tank-top, frowns. “Why do you always question my actions after I’ve already made them? Do you have short-term memory loss or something?” 

“Maybe my brain just tries to block out the memories after they happen,” Harry says darkly. “Might be traumatic otherwise. Do you even realize how dangerous that was?”

Louis rolls his eyes and swivels around in a neat pirouette. “Did I die though?” Not waiting for an answer, he starts walking with surprisingly long strides for his rather short legs. “Now stop complaining and follow me. We’re off to get some food.”

“How do you know there’s anything down there?” 

“Where else would it be? D’you suppose there’s an ice cream stand up here, selling their wares at ninety-five feet above sea level?”

“Eighty-five now,” Harry corrects. They walk downhill in a comfortable silence. The night feels alive somehow; there’s something about the quiet and the inky blackness of the sky around them and the fact that he was sitting at the highest part of the Brooklyn fucking Bridge - with his legs dangling off the edge, no less - that makes Harry’s skin crawl with energy. He almost understands why Louis jumped over his head like that - just because it was a risk but he  _ could _ , he did it and he didn’t die and maybe, for a split second as he whizzed above Harry, maybe he felt like he was flying.

Louis isn’t wrong about the ice cream at the bottom, either.

“I’ve just remembered,” Harry says as the walkway starts to level off. They’ve still got a good half mile before they get off the bridge, but at least it’s not so steep they’re in danger of sliding down the whole way anymore. “There’s this cute ice cream shop I used to go to when I was near DUMBO - ”

“Dumbo?” Louis giggles. “You’re the dumbo here, Harold.” 

“No, it’s an acronym. Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass,” Harry tries to explain, but his efforts are futile. Louis’ already scampered out of his line of sight and into the shadows of the bridge. Even if he were still listening, which Harry kind of doubts, there’s no way he can hear Harry’s ramblings over the sudden gust of wind that rattles the bolts above them. Oh well.

He chases blindly after the rapid pitter-patter of Louis’ footsteps, praying he doesn’t crash into a low-hanging beam. A concussion is just what he needs right now. 

“C’mon! Lift those knees!” Louis cries from somewhere ahead. “I want some ice cream!”

“Fuck you,” Harry hisses under his breath, but he does put more effort into his now-jog and makes sure to pick up his legs more and more until - 

He wishes he could say he burst into a courtyard or something with a brightly-lit sign beckoning him to the land of ice cream and sprinkles, all magical and clearly-illuminated - like Dorothy getting off the yellow brick road in the Emerald City - but alas. 

Instead, Louis’ standing smack dab in the center of the rotting wood pier. There’s a little cottage-looking building in the corner - that’s the ice cream shop Harry was remembering. It’s not lit up either, unless you count the single lightbulb flickering weakly in the streetlamp on the corner as a real light, which Harry doesn’t. Even worse, it’s got a chain-link fence around it with a big fat lock slapped on the opening. 

They’re not alone on the pier. There’s a dark shape slouched at the bottom of the lamppost. Dense clouds of putrid-smelling smoke emerge from it periodically; Harry assumes it’s a homeless person and he automatically feels bad for leaving his wallet with Nancy. It’s not that he always gives money to the homeless - it’s New York, after all, and if he did that he’d be flat-out broke in two days - but he and Gemma do make a point of donating to their local shelters every holiday season, and this huddled figure looks like they can use all the help they can get. That being said, he’s got got half a mind to grab Louis and turn around right then.

“Well,” he says, feeling inordinately disappointed. “That’s that. It’s closed for the night, clearly.”

Louis will not be deterred. “We’ve come all this way and I am not leaving without some sugar in my bloodstream,” he argues, and before Harry can stop him he’s darting over to the faceless smoker by the light.

“Lou, don’t, I haven’t got anything to give - ”

“Hello, ma’am,” Louis says brightly. “Do you happen to know of a way we could get into this fine establishment? I’m feeling a bit peckish.”

Good Lord. This boy, Harry thinks, then trails off because the cloud of cigarette smoke has just cleared to reveal a young girl - older than either of them from the looks of her pinched face, but still young - in a white apron and matching cap.

“Shit!” she says loudly and almost immediately claps both hands over her mouth. “I mean - sorry, I’ve been trying to stop cursing. Started a swear jar, too, only I’m too broke to sustain it.”

Louis laughs. “I tried to do that too,” he says delightedly. “My flatmate started using it as his own personal take out fund, though, so I stopped after a month of finding suspicious plastic containers strewn all over the place.”

“What Louis is trying to say,” Harry interjects somewhat desperately, “is that we’re really sorry but we haven’t got any change for you and we should probably get going - ”

“Louis? Is that your name?” the girl asks, stubbing out her cigarette on the damp wood and rising, surprisingly gracefully, to her feet. 

“Yeah, I’ve got a French ancestor or two back there somewhere,” Louis says, extending his hand with an air of friendly openness before Harry can warn him - you don’t just touch potentially homeless strangers in New York, even if this one is turning out to be less homeless than he’d originally thought. 

“Nice to meet you, Louis,” the girl says, taking his hand. “I’m Kelly. She laughs at herself for a second, Harry and Louis standing there slightly awkwardly (Well, Harry feels awkward. Louis looks perfectly at home. But doesn’t he always? Harry wonders), before explaining: 

“Sorry, I always laugh when I tell people my name. It’s just that Kelly’s the whitest name ever, and I’m, well, not.” She makes a vague gesture to the rope of glossy black hair she’s got tied back in a braid under the cap. “But my parents didn’t speak anything other than Cantonese when they came here and I was born, so when they saw a cereal box with the brand name Kellogg, that’s what they named me. I’m fucking - oh crap, sorry - I’m named after a box of cornflakes.”

Louis’ practically rolling on the ground by the time she’s done with her story. He’s clutching his sides, eyes crinkled into tiny slits and mouth wide open in silent chuckles. It’s like there’s warmth emanating from him instead of sound. He’s a brighter light than the streetlamp, that’s for damn sure. 

Even Harry has to admit it was a good story. “If it makes you feel better, cornflakes are my favorite,” he tells her. “I’m Harry, by the way. I’m sorry I like - I just assumed, which I know I shouldn’t - not that there’s anything wrong with being homeless! But yeah. Sorry for that.”

“It’s fine,” Kelly says, grinning. “I do look like a bit of a bum, don’t I? I’m not supposed to be here this late. We close at one on weekends.”

“Do you work there, then?” Louis perks up. “At the - ” He leans forward, squinting to make out the sign in the dark - “Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory?”

“Yeah, duh.” Kelly flips her hat at him and trudges over to the locked fence. “Read the cap,” she calls over her shoulder. “It’s proof I was employee of the month once!”

Louis examines the scuffed ballcap. It’s mostly plain white, but it does indeed have “Employee of the Month” embroidered in flowing golden script, right below a little red and gold striped box reading the name of the company. “Cute,” Harry mutters. 

Louis laughs. “Want one yourself?” He smushes the cap down over Harry’s curls; fortunately Harry’s too busy fussing with his hair to notice that he had to go on tiptoes to do it. 

“Ah, sugar!” they hear from behind them and they whirl around just in time to see Kelly jumping away from the fence, the lock crashing to the ground with a metallic clang. Louis winces. 

“Need some help over there?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Kelly says, moving back and shoving her shoulder against the fence. “In fact,” she continues, walking over to the door of the little shop and digging in her apron with her back to them, “Welcome to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory!”

The second she says it - it’s almost simultaneous, really - the main door swings open and the lights flash on and it all looks wonderfully inviting, almost as perfect as the Emerald City-esque greeting Harry’d wished for when they first got here. 

It looks like Kelly didn’t do a great job of closing up shop, because the ice cream cartons are still out and uncovered, but neither Harry nor Louis mentions it. 

Quite the contrary, in fact. Louis runs right up to the counter, nose leaving a little smudge-print against the glass and eyes full of unfiltered enthusiasm. “Look, it’s like a rainbow! There’s so many flavors!” he says, snagging Harry’s sleeve (if it can really be called his sleeve, since it’s Louis’ clothing he’s wearing) and tugging him closer to look alongside him. 

Kelly smiles fondly at the two of them from where she’s settled behind the glass. Harry catches her eye and blushes a bit; he can tell what she’s thinking. He doesn’t correct her. 

“I want three scoops!” Louis declares loudly. “Very much a lot.” 

“Very much a lot,” Harry agrees and then - oh, shit. He blushes harder, but this time it’s not a good kind of blush. Not the rose-petal-and-cream kind of blush, more like the firetruck red blush of embarrassment because “We weren’t lying about not having money,” he says apologetically. “I haven't got anything to pay with.”

Kelly rolls her eyes. “Do you really think I’d send you two back to wherever you came from? Don’t be silly. It’s on the house.” 

“Can you really do that?” Harry asks. “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble at work for us.”

Kelly rolls her eyes again. It seems to be a pattern. She and Louis should really get together and make an eye-rolling club; they’re both excellent at it. Maybe Gemma should join, too. Harry thinks the three of them would be friends. 

It’s a really, really nice thought. The rose petals make a return just as the firetruck red fades away. Blast his pale, pale skin. 

“Do I look like I care about getting in trouble at work?” Kelly asks, and with a wave of her hand, Harry knows it’s okay. “C’mon, order. Want you both to have the true Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory experience. The Deluxe Package, if you will.”

Louis looks up at them finally, the conversation having passed mostly over his head. “I like the sound of that.”

Harry grins at him. Kelly grins at the two of them. Louis grins at the entire world. He can’t be contained, Harry thinks. 

\--

“The vanilla is really good here,” Harry tells him after he’s placed his order, stepping back from the counter. “It’s what they’re known for.” 

Louis studies him, eyes narrowing. He offers Kelly a winning smile - he’s got really nice teeth, Harry notices - and, just as Harry thinks he’s going to get vanilla too so they can match, he says, “Mint chip, please. With rainbow sprinkles.”

Harry’s left staring at him in surprise. “How come you didn’t get vanilla?” 

“How come you did if you get it every time?” Louis responds. "Tell me, princess, when did you last let your heart decide?" His eyebrows waggle a little bit, which is annoying. What’s even more annoying is the tiny smirk that appears on his thin lips when Harry, still staring at him, goes up to the counter. 

“I’m sorry, can you change that order to a honeycomb, please?”

\--

They go back to the cab to eat their ice cream, since Louis seems too drunk to notice Harry’s goosebumps even with the sweater on and Harry’s too polite to mention Louis shivering as he slurps up his mint, confetti-like sprinkles raining down on the pier. 

“Why honeycomb?” Louis asks once they’ve settled down, knees almost brushing, facing each other in the backseat. (Only because there’s more space back there; it’s not like they’re going to do any backseat-typical activities, of course. Harry isn’t even imagining those. Not at all.)

“I decided to let my heart decide,” Harry says. 

\--

“She’s not really yellow,” Louis argues in between licks of his cone, completely unprovoked. “More of an orangey gold.” 

“Who is?” Harry laughs. 

“Nancy,” Louis says, as if it should be obvious. “Cabs aren’t really yellow, are they? It’s a false stereotype.” He flicks his tongue at a bit of ice cream stuck to the tip of his nose and Harry holds in a snort as he watches Louis’ eyes, still looking rather dreamy and unfocused, cross in a vain attempt to find the chunk of mint. 

“Why mint?” he asks, choosing to ignore the comment about his cab because it only reminds him of what they’re really here for, reminds him that Louis and his cross-eyed giggle will be gone from his life in a matter of hours, if they’re lucky. He should be happy about that - should be celebrating. 

Instead he nudges Louis’ thigh with his own and lets his ice cream drip onto the faux-leather seat between them, trying not to think about how much the honey color reminds him of Louis’ skin.

“It looked the most colorful,” Louis informs him sagely, and it’s true. The ice cream now running in a sticky line down his arm isn’t the same shade of green as the average mint ice cream is; it’s white with little bursts of red and green. There’s clearly some crushed candy scattered in there, too (apart from the rainbow sprinkles). “And also I told you I liked peppermint.” 

“That you did.”

\--

Even when he tried to jump out of the moving car, Harry hadn’t regretted letting Louis out of the back. That is, until now, when Louis discovers the volume dial on the control panel and starts questioning what it does. 

“You’ve got music up here, Harold? And you’ve been keeping it from me this whole time?”

“Most people don’t like having to listen to some stranger’s music on their ride,” Harry shrugs bashfully as a siren wails somewhere in the distance. “And I’m not looking for a bad review, so. I mostly just use that for myself.”

“Do you mean to say you’ve got your own playlists on here?”

“No, I mean - yes, but - Louis, don’t!”

It’s too late. Louis’ got hyperactive fingers, apparently (what a shocker), and he twitches some dials and taps a few buttons and the sound of sirens and trumpets fills the air. 

“Oh my god,” Louis breathes. “Is this what I think it is?”

Harry’s gone beet red; he’d have buried his face in his hands if he weren’t afraid he’d crash the car. “Don’t judge me, okay? It’s catchy.” 

“Hell yeah it’s catchy! I can’t believe the mighty Harold Styles has got  _ this _ on his playlist! Ha!” Louis cries, beaming, before he does a sort of drumbeat-on-steroids, palms thumping on the dashboard, and launches into a passionate war cry. “Ladies all across the world, listen up we’re looking for recruits! If you’re with me, lemme see your hands, stand up and salute!”

Harry squawks a laugh. “I can’t believe you know all the words!”

“Shush, Harold,” Louis says and presses a finger firmly to Harry’s lips; Harry’s too stunned to argue. “I’m trying to sing here!” He goes back to belting the notes. “It’s who we are…”

“We don’t need no camouflage, it’s the female federal,” Harry sings, licking Louis’ finger cheekily, giggling when Louis shoots him a scandalized look. He taps along to the beat on the steering wheel, smile so wide his cheeks hurt. “And we’re taking off. If you’re with me, women, lemme hear you say - “

“Ladies all across the world, listen up we’re looking for recruits!” they yell together. 

\--

“Before you make fun of me, I’ve got five sisters,” Louis says once the song is over and he’s paused the playlist, cheeks pink but smile wide. 

“Yeah, sure,” Harry teases. “That’s why you know all the note changes Little Mix does live and that’s why you sing along to the instrumentals, too. Keep telling yourself that, Lou.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Don’t pretend you didn’t do the exact same thing, Harold,” he mutters under his breath before turning on the next song, the crash of a cymbal drowning out any reply Harry could’ve made, and settling back into his seat, chewing absently on the strings of his hoodie. Harry’s not sure why he’s charmed by such a gross action.

“D’you think I can guess what this one is before the chorus, too?” Louis asks, pensive face looking sharper than usual. Harry blinks twice before he shrugs and looks away. 

“It’s kind of old,” he says. “But knock yourself out.”

They listen to guitar strumming and a steady percussion beat for a few seconds before there’s an actual voice. 

“I don’t know it,” Louis decides. “But it’s nice. Leave it.”

“Wasn’t going to change it,” Harry grins. “It’s called Let’s Go by The Cars, in case you wanted to know.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow in response. “Knowing you, that’s probably a pun. You’ve got The Cars on your driving playlist? You’re too much, honestly.”

Harry doesn’t deem that particular comment worthy of a reply. 

“Now that I think about it,” Harry says after they’ve listened for another minute, Louis nodding along to the neat, “this song seems a lot more like you than me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, there’s the lyrics.”

“Ah, the lyrics. Of course. Harry Styles, you must be the most eloquent music critic I’ve ever met,” Louis snarks, voice breaking on a laugh, but he does listen for a second. “What, do you think I’ve got wonderful eyes? Am I your one desire?”

“No, you twat,” Harry says, although personally he could possibly drown in the blue of Louis’ eyes and be glad about it. “I just mean - ‘I like the nightlife baby’ and ‘let’s go’. That’s you, yeah? That’s what you’re doing. Energy and spontaneity and adventure - that’s you, isn’t it, and I’m just this guy who drives a taxi every day.” He grips the steering wheel. 

Louis’ silent for a second, long enough for Harry to worry that he’s scared him with that little outburst, but eventually he turns to Harry, mouth pinched contemplatively. “Well, first of all,” he says, “You don’t drive every day, you drive at night. Told me so yourself.”

It prompts a wry chuckle.

“But that’s not the point, is it? The point is that you’re out here every night, providing for strangers and your family too, I’m sure. You get to help and meet all these weirdos, yeah, all these people wandering around New York at night. If that’s not ‘the nightlife, baby’, then what is?” He pauses for a moment. “And you can’t tell me you’ve not got just as much ‘let’s go’ in you as I have, because I know full well you could throw me to the curb and turn in your cab and go home to bed right now if you really wanted to.” Louis turns away from him then, shoulders hunching, and lets his breath puff up a cloud of condensation on the glass window. 

Harry lets another few songs pass by - Sir Duke by Stevie Wonder and Hello, Goodbye by the Beatles - before he trusts himself to speak. “I wouldn’t. Throw you out, I mean. I would never.” 

Louis’ arm comes up and lands briefly in his hair, falling and scrubbing over his face a second later as if he’s not quite sure what to do with it. He huffs out a shaky sigh. “Well, thank you.”

Harry feels a small smile poking at his lips. The car’s quiet save for the hum of Nancy’s engine and the muted thrum of the never-sleeping city just outside their little bubble. The streetlights cast a soft green light on Louis’ face, making the blue in his eyes pop even more, gleaming in the dark. The air’s so still he can see dust motes floating by, swirling in the air every time Louis breathes out. 

Louis’d described being drunk as floaty and fun.

Harry wants to kiss him.

“You’re welcome, by the way, for not taking off my shoes.”

Harry stares at him. “What?”

“In the Go song. ‘She’s so beautiful now, she doesn’t wear her shoes’. I can’t believe you, Harold I’m-so-posh-I-can’t-imagine-why-people-don’t-wear-shoes Styles. You claim you hate feet, yet the second song on your playlist is about how being barefoot is beautiful.”

“That’s not - oh my God, Louis, that’s not what it’s about. You’re ridiculous,” Harry says, but the fact that he’s dissolving into snorts of teary-eyed laughter kind of takes away from the statement. In the corner of his eyes he sees Louis’ beam illuminated and shining in the neon lights, bare toes winking at him from their perch on the dashboard. He did take off his shoes, then. And, well, he is beautiful. 

\--

“I’m still hungry,” Louis says two minutes later. 

Harry rubs his temples. He should’ve known. It’s not like they just had about a gallon of ice cream between them, no, not at all. 

“Can we get a midnight snack somewhere?”

“Hate to break it to you, Louis, but there’s not that many places down here that are open at three in the morning. I’m surprised we could even get served back there.”

“I’m not,” Louis says smugly. “She would’ve opened no matter what. Even if it was the zombie apocalypse she’d have taken one look at my dashingly handsome face and thrown those doors open. And then of course I’d eat her alive, but the point still stands.” 

“How’d we go from midnight snack to eating people alive?” Harry shakes his head in disbelief; he is too tired for this. “You’re so weird.”

“Cannibalism, Harold,” Louis says primly. “You should know this. Besides, back to the original topic - we’re in the city that never sleeps, aren’t we? There’s gotta be somewhere to go.”

“That’s New York, though. Not here.”

“Are you trying to imply that Brooklyn’s not part of the city?” Louis asks, hand to his heart in shock. “I know you wouldn’t say that to my face.”

Harry rolls his eyes for what must be the fiftieth time that night. “No I’m not - it doesn’t matter. Regardless, we’re not going anywhere because we’re driving around to see if any of these neighborhoods jog your memory, aren’t we?”

He hears without actually seeing Louis huff out an exasperated sigh. There’s a suspicious silence after that, a deceptive moment of calm as Louis looks out the window to actually do what he’s told for once, but that’s all it lasts - a moment. Louis’ grabbing the GPS from the dashboard and typing in an address, an impish grin stretched across his face, in the blink of an eye. Harry highly doubts it’s the address of his flat - apartment. 

“Where are we going now?” he sighs in exasperation. 

Louis flashes his teeth at him. “Ikea!”

“Lou - ieeee,” Harry moans. “Of all the places you could’ve chosen, you picked that Swedish pit of hell?”

“What’s wrong with Ikea?” Louis asks, affronted. Harry wonders if he’s ever not affronted. “Are you one of those people who can’t put their furniture together and so decide to hate Ikea on principle just because they’re too dumb to read the instructions?”

“No, of course not.” 

Louis stares at him. “I’m unconvinced.”

“I just don’t like Ikea, okay? And it’s in Red Hook - that’s ages away and it’s not even in a particularly  _ nice _ part of Red Hook, either.”

Louis grins. “It’ll just give us more time to jog my memory, then, won’t it. Besides, there’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“How do you know that?” Harry says, turning to him with his eyebrows bunched together. “How do you know there’s nothing stopping me from turning around right now?”

If possible, Louis’ smirk gets even deeper, eyes narrowing with mischief and dimples to rival Harry’s own popping out on his cheeks. “Because you told me yourself.” He lowers his voice and frowns a bit, puffing out his chest. “‘Once it’s in the GPS I can’t go off course or it’ll notify the company.’” Looking smugger than ever, he slumps back in his chair. “Ring any bells? Or should I say - does it jog your memory, posh boy?”

Harry grits his teeth and stomps on the gas, not deigning to answer. Honestly. He’s insufferable, really. 

\----

“You keep calling me posh,” Harry says as they step through the sliding glass doors, white light smacking him in the face at the same time as he walks straight into a coffee table that’s been conveniently placed in the center of the path. “Damn Ikea,” he mutters under his breath. “Damn these stupid furniture layouts.”

Eyes crinkling, Louis stifles a chuckle in his sleeve. “Think you mean furniture instructions, hmm?” 

Harry doesn’t murder him. He doesn’t think about it, either. 

They pick their way through the kitchen section and wander up a few escalators, Louis walking down on purpose just to make Harry mad, before he responds to Harry’s earlier comment. 

“You are posh. You’re a posh boy from Holmes’ Chapel.”

“I’m a taxi driver in New York. ‘S not really a glamourous job, I’d say. Not much of a posh lifestyle, either.”

Louis shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you aren’t meant to be rich and famous. You just got stuck here for a bit, yeah?”

Harry doesn’t answer, instead choosing to run his fingertips along the edge of a bedframe - it’s got a stained ash veneer, apparently, and it’s part of the Malm set. They’ve reached the bedroom section by now. They’re headed in no particular direction, or so Louis claims, but Harry knows he’s following the signs to the cafeteria area. He’s not complaining. The heady aroma of Ikea’s Swedish Meatballs has been known to lead far stronger men to their demise in this Swedish labyrinth. Harry’s powerless to stop himself. 

“Me best mate’s Pakistani,” Louis continues when it becomes clear that Harry’s not going to answer. “His dad’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, hands down. Has around three medical degrees from the Middle East. But they moved here when he was in his forties and they won’t accept his training, and he couldn’t get a job because he’s Muslim and foreign and America’s full of xenophobes. So he worked three jobs when Zayn was a kid. Drives a cab, too.”

Harry heaves a breath. 

“It’s shit, is what it is.” Louis’ eyes roam over the embroidered pillows stacked in piles around them. “But it was something. Just goes to show that you can be a cab driver and still be as posh as you want. And it’s not that being a cab driver isn’t posh. If you wanted to drive Nancy for the rest of your life I’d say that’s great for you. But I get the feeling that you don’t. And I think you might need reminding that you have that posh future, if you want it.” He shoves his heads into the pocket of his hoodie and looks up at Harry, who’s gone still listening to him. “Y’alright there, Harold?”

“‘M fine,” Harry says. They’re surrounded by mattresses. He kind of wants to pull Louis down onto one and snog him senseless. “Thank you.”

“It’s the truth, posh boy,” Louis tells him and steps closer to tug on a wayward curl, face only inches away and Harry just wants to reach out and touch - “Now let’s go get our midnight snack, yeah? Last one there’s a rotten meatball!” He shoves Harry backwards and cackles gleefully as the taller boy topples over, mouth wide open in betrayal and limbs all askew as he struggles to escape from the memory foam waterbed he’s landed in. 

\--

They make it through the lighting and window sections, only stopping once for Harry to stare starstruck at the rows and rows and brightly colored candles in the garden section. 

(“Don’t laugh at me, Lou, I’m not the one who ranted for a full minute over peppermint air freshener!” he’d said. 

“Well, I’m not the one who’s popping a boner over candle arrangements. Good God, Harold.” 

“Oh yeah, this stuff really gets me going,” Harry had faux-moaned. “Cinnamon-apple! Mmm! Yeah, give me more of that sandalwood and spice!” 

“You’re an embarrassment,” Louis had told him, turning away, but not before Harry had seen the light blush on his cheeks. Hah.) 

Despite Louis whining over the rising prices of Swedish meatballs, they’d managed to scrounge up enough pocket change to buy a six-pack of cinnabuns. The tray is settled between them now on top of one of those white cafeteria tables, only this one’s got irregularly tall legs. 

“I feel like I’m back in high school,” Louis complains, finishing off his second cinnabun and making a show of licking his fingers. 

Harry pulls a face. “With those manners, I’d say primary. Can your feet even touch the floor?”

It earns him a look of pure hatred and a vicious kick under the table. 

After all, Harry thinks as he rubs the surely-forming bruise on his shin, these tables are made for Swedes, and he supposes not everyone’s got the proper leg length for them. Can’t be helped. 

By the time they make it out of Ikea, their eyes taking a second to adjust back from the sterile white light, it’s ages later. The few cars they’d seen in the parking lot have cleared out, leaving Nancy the lone ranger, a bright yellow (sorry, orangey-gold, Harry corrects mentally) beacon in the pitch black. But that’s not all - 

“Has it  _ rained _ ?” Louis asks incredulously. There’s a massive puddle of brown water - not really a puddle, actually, it’s more of a trench - blocking their way out of the building. The wind gust and the surface of the water ripples towards them, inching perilously closer to the toes of Louis’ Vans. He’s gotten as close as possible in his curiousity and is now in danger of getting wet feet. How characteristic. Harry laughs. 

“Lou, get away so your feet don’t get all gross,” he warns, leaning against the sliding glass walls, content to just watch the smaller boy’s antics. He sniffs the air - salty. The reason Red Hook’s such an industrial neighborhood is mainly because they’re so close to the ocean here, where ships and landing docks can be found scattered every few blocks like rusted metal breadcrumbs.

He hasn’t been down here in a while. He hasn’t been near the ocean in a while, for that matter, not having time for a jaunt down to remote parts of Brooklyn in his daily life. He wonders if Louis could be convinced to stroll down to the pier with him, wonders if the deep blue they’d see there would match Louis’ eyes. It would probably be a mix of their eye colors, he thinks - blue and green fusing together - and a quiet smile tickles his cheeks. 

“‘S okay,” Louis grins, dragging Harry out of his musings. “I don’t need to worry about my shoes when I can take them off and be beautiful and barefoot, right, Harold?” With that he flings his arms back for momentum, slender fingers narrowly missing taking Harry’s eye out, and leaps straight into the pool of rainwater. 

The aftermath can really only be described as chaos. Louis’ landed, jeans barely streaked with water, somewhere in the middle of the puddle - although from the smug grin he’s wearing, you’d think he’d just made the long jump world record or something. 

Harry, on the other hand, has been left drenched and shocked. His white shirt is left see-through and plastered to his torso, and he’s almost sure he’s got cold parking lot water in his hair, which. No way. 

“You little fucking - You did not just do that!” he sputters and then, before he can really think about what he’s doing, he’s launching himself at Louis.

“Harold!” Louis squawks when they collide, Harry’s arms wrapping tightly around his lithe body before they both go crashing down with a massive splash. 

“If I have to get wet, you have to come down with me,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s got Louis pinned down on his back in the water, practically submerged in the deep. 

“Do you know how many diseases are in this puddle - hey!” Louis sputters, as Harry drizzles a handful of water over his face. “Get off me, you great oaf!”

“Never,” he says menacingly even as Louis, quite surprisingly, manages to push him off and to the side.

“Nancy’s going to get wet too, Harold, did you think of that?” He runs his hands up Harry’s sides. 

“Stop, stop, ‘m ticklish!” Harry cries on a laugh, writhing on his back. 

“Oh, silly me,” Louis says, and now they’ve switched positions so Harry’s hair is floating out behind him in the water, Louis kneeling in front of him with water droplets sparkling on his collarbones. “That’s not my intention at all! I would never even dream of tickling you, kind taxi driver!”

“I would never - ha! - even dream of murdering - ha! - you, kind passenger,” Harry chokes out. He can literally feel water collecting in his dimples. He’s sure there are rivulets running off his clenching abs, too - it certainly feels that way.

“You look like a mermaid!” Louis cries delightedly. “Where’s the clam bra when you need it?”

Harry’s laughing too hard to splash him properly. 

They’re both shivering as they walk back to the car. Harry’s nipples are out in full show as always - damn his see through shirts - and Louis can’t seem to resist reaching out to twist one.

“You brat!”

Louis doesn’t even look remotely abashed. “I’ll get the sweatshirt from the back and you can change into something warmer, yeah?” he offers, giving Harry’s nipple a final friendly pat. Harry bats his hand away and rolls his eyes for good measure as he clicks Nancy’s doors open, each boy sliding into their respective sections of the car. Louis fishes in the back for a second, legs propped up on the seat with the front half of his body hanging into the back

“Harry, it’s almost three thirty,” he says incredulously, voice muffled. “How long did we spend in there?”

“I feel like time passes differently in Ikea. It’s not part of the real world, you know? Like it’s in some sort of alternate section of the universe and you go in through a little portal or something. Sometimes I feel like you could spend your whole life in there - sleep on the mattresses, eat at the cafeteria, plant some flowers for yourself - and you’d never even know.”

There’s a suspicious silence from the back. 

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says. He cuts the engine and climbs out of the front, uneasiness settling into his stomach. “How did you know the time if your head’s all the way back there?”

“Um,” Louis says.

\--

“I can’t believe you had your phone this whole time and you didn’t think to use it.” They’re rumbling around, looping in circles in the parking lot like a teenager having his first driving lesson until Harry can figure out how to calm down enough - and warm up enough - to drive properly. 

“You didn’t either,” Louis says, lips pushing out in a pouty face and arms coming up to cross defensively over his chest, biceps clenching through the thin material.

“Yeah, but it’s - ”

Louis cuts him off with a sigh. “It was in the back, okay? You saw it. I didn’t realize I had it until now; it must’ve fallen out of my pocket or something and I was too drunk to realize.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You’re not too drunk now?”

Louis doesn’t say anything for awhile, posture stiff and body taut. Marry You by Bruno Mars comes up on the playlist, volume low but still high enough for Harry to feel supremely awkward. It’s not that it’s a terrible song, it’s just that - He bites his lip. Shit. That was probably not a good thing to say. 

_ It’s a beautiful night, we’re looking for something dumb to do _ , Bruno croons.  _ Hey baby, I think I wanna marry you. _

Harry can almost see the irony in the air, right between the hard set of Louis’ jaw and his gaze, icy enough to freeze lava. 

“If you really wanted me gone you would’ve thought to check for yourself,” Louis says finally, angrier than Harry’s seen him so far. He leans over to snatch the cracked iPhone out of Harry’s grasp. “I thought we went over this, but clearly I interpreted things wrong. I’ll find the address, alright? I’ll text Zayn and go home and you can be rid of me. Just like that.” The phone unlocks with a click and Louis’ fingers fly over the keyboard, little clicks echoing in the unmoving car. 

There’s the swooping sound of a message going through and then, almost immediately after, ten million buzzes as (Harry assumes) he receives a rant from his mates. 

Louis reads off the address after a beat. He turns away to face the window, silencing his phone and tucking it in his pocket. 

Harry enters it into the GPS with shaky hands. Louis’ still not looking at him. 

_ Just say I do-ooo-oooo _

_ Tell me right now, baby. _

“That’s not what I want.” The words seem to fall out of his mouth, slow and syrupy and foreign-sounding. Louis spins to look at him in surprise. “To be rid of you. That’s not what I want. I thought you knew.”

“It’s a bit too late for that,” Louis responds wrily, hand flapping in the general direction of the GPS. But he uncrosses his arms anyway and reaches over to turn Harry’s music up. The song’s ending - “bye, Bruno,” Harry hears him whisper - and by the time the opening strains of Beyonce’s Crazy in Love blare out, he’s back to his bouncy, energized self. Like the moment had never happened, had never existed at all. 

\--

They’re almost there, tracking device reading ten minutes to their destination, when Louis starts to get antsy again. 

“One more place before I have to go home, please?”

“No.”

“Can we just go ice skating? Before you drop me off?” Louis begs, hands clasped in front of his chest and puppy-dog eyes out in full force. “It’ll be quick, I promise.” 

“Lou, we’re both soaked and you have to sleep,” Harry groans. “And in order to sleep I’ve got to get you home.”

“I could sleep here,” he argues. “I could sleep here forever and you could drive me anywhere you wanted and I would come along too. Like Aladdin’s magic carpet.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Harry whispers, and it’s only when he sees Louis’ knee stop bouncing for a split second that he realizes he’s said it out loud.

“Please?” Louis asks again.

“The ice skating rink closes at ten, I know it for a fact. We passed ten a while ago, Lou.”

He gets a pout in return. Damn it. Damn this boy and his evil blue eyes. He huffs his biggest sigh of the night so far and turns back to the blue-eyed devil perched halfway out of his seat. “What do I have to do to get you to stop asking?”

Their eyes meet, calm and still and holding each other’s gaze gently for a beat before Louis’ eyes drop to Harry’s lips for a fraction of a second, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. 

Harry’s the first to tear away, hands flying to his hair and tugging madly, desperately. He shakes his head. “I can’t. No, Louis, you’re drunk as hell and I can’t kiss you, I can’t take advantage of you like that, I shouldn’t even be  _ talking  _ to you - “

Louis’ dainty hand flies out of nowhere to circle loosely onto his wrist, fingers intertwining oh-so-softly with Harry’s own and tugging them down from his hair. “Hey,” he says quietly, weaving through the mess of Harry’s falling-over-themselves words. “You’re fine, it’s okay. Nothing has to happen, yeah?”

Harry’s hand feels warm. He breathes. 

“Also,” Louis looks down, a pale blush blooming on his cheeks. “If it makes you feel any better, I kinda stopped being drunk two hours ago?”

“What?!” Harry’s head snaps around fast enough to give him whiplash, mouth falling into a little o. “Why?”

“I, um.” That’s definitely a blush now, flaming ears and all, “I thought you’d stop our adventure if you knew I wasn’t drunk, and well. I like our adventure. Liked, I guess.” 

“You are so bloody stupid,” Harry breathes out. “Kiss me.” 

Louis’ eyes shoot up to meet his and it’s all he sees before a gentle hand is coming to rest on his jaw and warms lips move against his and his eyes fall shut. 

It’s a hungry kiss. Their teeth clack together, mouths parting almost instantly and tongues darting out to dance together, sucking and biting and pulling like they can’t get enough, like they both know this might be their last chance, their only chance. Harry’s breathing hard, heart throbbing madly in his chest, when they pull apart. There’s a little string of spit connecting their swollen lips. Louis’ cheeks bunch up when he smiles. 

“Like.” Harry says, and leans in to press a dry kiss to Louis’ grin. He turns away then, revving the engine and peering through the muddy windshield - it had gotten splattered with puddle water when Louis had shaken himself out like a wet dog before climbing back in outside Ikea. “Not liked. I like our adventure.”

\--

Louis doesn’t question it when Harry pulls into a parking spot in front of the Botanical Gardens, only dropping Louis’ hand so he can get out and open the car door for him. Harry can tell he’s holding back a cheeky comment when he stumbles twice as they tiptoe around security cameras and slide through the slats of the fence to get in, but all Louis does is squeeze his hand tighter and really that’s all he wants. 

Harry doesn’t question it when Louis picks up a fallen flower, being careful not to disturb the ones still growing in the mounds of dew-damp soil. He brushes it off and places a light kiss on top of it before handing it to Harry, eyes as blue as the lightening sky. “For the prettiest rose,” he says, and Harry squeezes his hand tighter because really that’s all he wants. 

Neither of them question it when they walk far enough to see the entrance again and then turn back for just one more loop around, just one more look at the cherry trees, just one more time, please. They squeeze each other tighter. It’s really all they want. 

\--

“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” Louis whispers once they’re back on the road, Harry’s thumb rubbing tiny circles into the back of Louis’ hand over the gearshift. 

“Why not?” Harry’s voice is gravelly from disuse. 

“Because I won’t wake up. And I get sleep-drunk, like, I won’t know what’s going on. My brain kinda shuts down when I’m asleep.”

Harry thinks back to earlier that night when Louis had passed out in the back, drool leaving a little mark on the seat cover. He hopes it’s not gone in the morning. 

Earlier that night - God, it seems like eternities have passed since then.

“And also… Maybe it’s cliche, but I don’t wanna miss any of this. I don’t wanna forget. And if I sleep, I will.” The hand in his twitches once. Harry’s not sure whether it’s his or Louis’. 

“So don’t fall asleep then,” he says, and it’s in a light tone but he can feel his heart sinking because, no, he doesn’t want to miss any of this, either. Doesn’t ever want to forget the blue-eyed boy next to him, and it might be cliche but he just wants time to stop, just once, give them a few extra hours together before the sun comes up and the neon lights fade in the daylight. 

Louis leans his head against the cool window. They’re still pointed towards each other, two diagonal lines intersecting where their hands meet. “Yeah, but how can I stay awake when you’re doing that thing with your thumb?” he laughs breathily. “More soothing than a massage, honestly, Harold. ‘S like you’re trying to put me to sleep.”

Harry pauses in his motions, thumb hovering over the delicate bones of Louis’ hand. “D’you want me to stop?”

“No,” Louis hums, eyes drifting closed. “I like it. I like you.”

Harry grins. His bones are aching with lack of sleep and his eyes are dry and itchy and his teeth are sticky with honeycomb and mint ice cream, but. “I like you too.” 

They breathe three times - Harry counts - before a smile blooms on Louis’ face, eyelashes still casting fluttery shadows on his cheeks, and he whispers, barely audible, “I like the nightlife baby.”

“Let’s go,” Harry whispers back. 

When Louis doesn’t respond for five minutes, he takes his eyes off the road for the shortest moment possible and - Louis’ gone. His eyes are closed, fingers curled limply around Harry’s, breaths even and deep. 

The sun’s rising through the windshield, soft oranges and pinks lighting the cityscape. In Harry’s hand, Louis’ skin feels as breakable as a single glass slipper. 

\--- 

The GPS vibrates once to show they’ve reached their destination before it powers down with a quiet beep and Harry turns to observe their surroundings. He pulls to a stop outside a rust-red building. It’s not a bad neighborhood; there’s some graffiti on the wall by the door and splattered across a few of the vacant lots he’d passed on the way here, but it looks more like the art kind of graffiti than the gang kind. So Louis will be safe, at least.

“Oh thank God, Lou,” someone yells suddenly, startling him, and then Louis is being pulled out of the car and wrapped in what looks like a bone-crushing hug. “We didn’t know where you were this whole time, Jesus. Don’t do that again. Liam’s about to pass out from nerves, you know how he gets.” 

Louis gives a sleepy chuckle, sound muffled into the taller man’s shoulder. “Won’t happen again, Zaynie-poo. Harry brought me home!” He drags his fingers through the guy’s quiff, prompting a glare, and it’s then that Harry realizes how attractive this Zayn is. He’s managed to look gorgeous even in the dusty glare of a streetlamp on the still mostly-dark street, caramel skin looking smooth - probably well-lotioned - and amber eyes framed with a set of dark eyelashes long enough to rival even Louis’. 

Harry swallows. “So I take it you’re Zayn?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, looking up in surprise, like he’s only just realized that yes, there is someone driving this cab. “Yeah, of course. I’m really sorry about him. He’s usually never like this, I swear he’s a good guy. Oh God - he didn’t do anything weird, did he? Like, he didn’t try to pee out the window or something, right?”

Harry can’t help but laugh at the genuine concern radiating from Zayn, brows knit and a tense arm wrapped around Louis’ lax shoulders. “No, it’s fine. He was actually - “ he pauses, eyes landing on Louis. Louis blinks twice and beams at him silently. 

Harry tears his eyes back to Zayn. “I mean, he was very loud, yeah, but he’s also just a great person to just sit back and admire what he’s like.” He feels his cheeks warm just a touch. “That sounds weird, doesn’t it. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting this to be fun, but. It was a lot of fun.” He scuffs his feet together, cheeks ablaze now. Great, now he’s made a tit of himself in front of Louis’ best friend. It shouldn’t matter what Zayn thinks of him, logically, but then again Harry’s brain isn’t logical at all and so it  _ does  _ matter, despite the fact that he’ll probably never see the pair again. 

Well. 

His smile falls. 

“No, I, uh, kinda know what you mean,” Zayn says quietly, still holding Louis up. “Can’t thank you enough, mate.” 

“‘S nothing, really,” Harry says, looking down “Was only a couple hours and it’s not like I was gonna sleep anyway.”

“A couple hours?” Zayn’s eyes widen incredulously. “What time was it when you picked him up>”

Harry refrains from mentioning that having a customer dive through your back window hardly counts as picking them up. “Around twelve, I think.”

“Holy shit, that’s longer than we thought.” 

“Long,” Louis sighs, and both of them turn to look at the sleep-dazed boy between them. “Long like Harry’s hair. Long way down.”

Zayn gives them both a weird look. “Anyway, Harry, if it’s been that long he can’t have paid you enough. Here,” he digs out his wallet and hands over a wad of bills without even checking how many there are. 

Harry takes it gingerly and rifles through. It’s probably more money that he’s ever earned in a week from cabbying, let alone from one passenger; he glimpses more than a few Benjamins before he turns to Zayn, eyes wide with disbelief. 

“Take tomorrow off or summat, yeah?” Zayn says kindly. “God knows you could use some rest. It’s almost morning and you two’ve stayed up all night.” He closes Harry’s fingers around the cash and pushes it towards him. “Go on.”

“Zayn,” Louis mutters. He sounds like a kitten in distress. He reaches out to bat Harry’s hand away from the money, an already-familiar pout settled on his lips. “Zayn, how will we see him again if he takes tomorrow off?”

Zayn gently tucks Louis’ hand back into the pocket of his hoodie. Harry tries not to mourn the loss of Louis’ warmth, even if it was just the very tips of his fingers. 

“That’s the thing, babe, we’re not going to see him tomorrow. Harry’s a busy guy. He hasn’t got time to drive all across Brooklyn to try and find where we live every night, yeah?”

“Oh,” Louis says, and Harry’s not sure if he imagines the sad line of his drowsy frown, but he sounds a bit dejected for a second before the corners of his lips quirk up again. “Next tomorrow, then!” 

“It was lovely to meet you, Harry,” Zayn says, and they shake hands. “Thank you again for getting him home. Gonna put him to bed now, I think.”

“Yeah,” Harry says thickly. He clears his throat a bit before continuing. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Bye Zayn. Bye Louis.” He gives a half-hearted wave and clambers back inside Nancy, the engine puttering to life with a reluctant groan as he pulls away from the curb.

“Let’s go,” Zayn whispers to Louis. 

The smaller boy tucks himself into Zayn’s chest, soft smile making him look years younger than he really is. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he murmurs in a sing-song voice, like his own personal lullaby. “Let’s go.”

The last thing Harry sees before he drives away are Louis’ eyes, sleep dazed but still so, so bright, sending flashes of neon and blue coursing into his veins. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a preset ride, meaning the customer’s already put in their destination and credit card information online. All Harry has to do is drive silently and hope for a tip. Easy peasy. 

A man gets into the car and shuts the door with a quiet thud. He looks like an average business man from what Harry can see; he’s got a cellphone pressed to his ear, arm blocking any possible view of his face, and besides, Harry’s made a habit of not looking directly at any of his passengers anymore. It’s not like he’s really been in the mood to ogle anyone since - 

He shakes his head and pulls away from the curb without a second thought. He’s got to stop thinking about him. 

It goes without saying that Harry didn’t see Louis the night after. He didn’t see him the next tomorrow, either. It’s been long enough that they’re past May breezes and fully into the crisp air of October, scarlet and gold littering the sidewalks and crunching under step.

Long enough that Harry stopped loitering by that one nightclub in the indigo hours, long enough that he’s added more hours and now works during the day because he’s found he rather likes this job, rather likes the people he’s met through sweltering summer drives and muggy drop-offs. But mostly, he works during the day because he wants to and because he  _ can. _

“Oh right, you have your hot date tonight,” Louis says, waggling his eyebrows. Harry stifles his grin into the back of his hand; he’s still just as cute as he’d remembered. 

Louis’ voice turns soft. “I’m really glad, though, Li. You know how happy I am for you two, right?”

There’s a muffled groan through the phone, and then Harry hears Louis’ laugh for the first time in four months, sounding like a messy cross between tinkling glass and the whoosh of a  carpet flying through the desert - condensed adventure. It’s magical. Harry thinks his ears might be orgasming.

“Go suck his brains out,” Louis says, before turning bright red and slapping a hand over his mouth. “Jesus, Li, I forgot I’m in a cab and I’m being so incredibly rude - yeah, love you too, have a lovely time with Zayn - bye!”

“Shit,” he says, setting his phone face down on the dashboard and heaving a sigh, hands pressed to his face in a gesture that’s so - well, all Harry can think is in the few hours he’s known this boy, he’s already got a gesture inexplicably and unequivocally linked to him.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” Louis continues. “I’m not usually this impolite, I promise, it’s just that my two best friends have just gotten together and it’s all very overwhelming.” His legs kick up feebly, an aborted attempt to prop his feet on the dashboard. Even that little movement is endearing.

Harry keeps his eyes on the road.

“I’m sure you know how these things are, sir,” Louis says, which, Harry doesn’t, but Louis hardly waits for an answer before steamrollering into his next sentence. “So, on that note, thank you for driving me and I hope you and forgive my behavior - oh.” It seems to die in his throat a little and harry knows, knows even without looking that Louis has finally turned to face the driver’s seat.

They slide gently to a stop; it’s a red light. Harry watches his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, bottom lip surely doing the same where it’s clamped between his teeth. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

It’s silent for too long - long enough for the light to turn green again and long enough for Harry to force himself to press the gas, come on, you’ve been driving this thing for years and all it takes is one blue-eyed boy to make you forget where the pedals are. Get it together, Styles.

And then - 

“Oops,” Louis says. His voice is soft and high and calmer, somehow, than the voice of the boy he’d met that night by the pub. More sure of himself. Dressed in a neatly ironed Cinderella-blue suit instead of skinny jeans and a sweatshirt. But this voice, this boy, really, hasn’t lost any of his spontaneity. Harry can hear the smile stretching his face as he speaks. 

“Hi,” Harry whispers. 

“Do you want to maybe pull over so you don’t crash Nancy?” Louis smirks, and while he was driving just fine before, hearing the name ‘Nancy’ fall from Louis’ thin lips is enough to make him jerk the wheel in shock. So maybe Louis has a point. 

“We’re almost there,” he says instead. “Just don’t talk until I stop, okay?”

Louis giggles and pantomimes zipping his mouth shut. It’s weird, seeing him in the light of day. Even weirder seeing him in a well-fitted suit. He’s - well, he’s pretty hot, if he wasn’t already. But he’s still just as silly, and this time he doesn’t have the excuse of being drunk to cover him. 

“Didn’t think you’d remember, to be honest,” Harry says a few minutes of quiet later, tongue flicking out to wet his lips nervously as he parks carefully - they’re at their destination already. He ducks his head, hiding the blush that’s come to settle on his cheekbones. 

“Forget you?” Louis’ voice is higher than it was when he was on the phone just a short while ago  - so maybe he’s nervous too, Harry takes comfort in that - but he’s back to that unwavering eye contact, finger hooking gently under Harry’s chin and lifting it a fraction. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing quickly. “Harry. I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

  


Shit. Shitshitshit. Harry has no idea what to say to that; his heart is beating out of his chest and are those - those are definitely butterflies in his stomach, or maybe he’s eaten some insect and it’s threatening to fly away again. “Did you find Kelly?” he blurts. “I went back to see her but she wasn’t there.”

If Louis is surprised by the switch in conversation, he doesn’t let on. He drops his finger from Harry’s chin, but he keeps staring; Harry can see Louis’ eyes shining in his peripheral vision. “She works mornings now.”

“So you have seen her, then.”

Louis laughs. “Eaten her out of house and home, more like. She still gives it to me for free. I even got a kitchen sink one time, one of each flavor with a cup of sprinkles on the side, and she shoved away my money. Even when I told her me mates and I were celebrating a case we won and that we had plenty to spare, she wouldn’t take it.”

“Only you would order something that gross,” Harry says, shaking his head and not even attempting to hide the fond as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. “Does that mean the case was successful?”

“You remember that?” Louis sounds shocked. 

“How could I forget?” Harry echoes.

Louis gives a shy smile. “It went well, yeah, and the girl is safe and happy. ‘S really everything I could’ve asked for.”

They gaze at each other for a moment, letting the good news and the general happiness of the moment wrap around them and fill the cab with a light that wasn’t there before. 

Harry clears his throat. “So, um.” 

“So, um,” Louis mimics, head tilting like a puppy, almost - it reminds Harry of how he’d looked at him on the bridge, head cocked to the side and eyes studying his face so, so intently. 

“Shush, you,” he grumbles, reaching over to swat Louis’ thigh, smile poking at his lips.

“Get it out then.”

“So, does this mean you’d want to go out to a movie with me sometime?” It rushes out.

“Like, on a date?”

“Um, maybe?” 

Louis smirks at him. 

“Not maybe, I mean - yes?” It still sounds like a question. 

“Harry Styles. I would be honored to go on a movie that is in fact a date with you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“‘Thanks’? Who says ‘thanks’ after asking someone out? My goodness, Harold. We’re going to have to work on your dating skills.”

Harry doesn’t answer. He’s too busy beaming.  _ Dating _ . Yes, he can get behind that. Definitely. 

They sit in silence and grin at each other for far too long than is socially acceptable. But who cares, really, because they’re sequestered in the belly of Harry’s cab - or Nancy, rather, because while Harry’s cab belongs to him, Nancy belongs to them both, equally, and that’s the kind of descriptor Harry would like to apply to most everything in his life. _ Dating.  _ He smiles harder.

“This is going to sound really fucking presumptuous,” Louis says suddenly, heaving a breath, “But I have a massive meeting in like two minutes and I don’t want to leave because what if I can’t find you again and - I don’t think you understand how bad it was for the past four months, I’m not going to do that again ever if I can help it.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “If you have to go, you have to go. I understand.”  He’s secretly revelling at the desperate conviction in Louis’ voice because of course he does understand how bad it was for the past four months. He lived it. It’s just nice to know it was the same on both sides.

“Yeah, but how am I going to  _ find _ you?”

“I’ll wait,” Harry says easily. “I’ll be here when you come back out.” 

Louis stares at him for a few seconds more. “I really want to kiss you,” he blurts. 

Harry giggles. Louis frowns at his dimple. “‘S not fair. I really do.”

“You’ll have to wait until after your meeting, won’t you?”

Louis pouts. 

“Oh, come on, don’t give me that look. Be off with you.”

“Fiiiiiineeee,” Louis huffs, a beleaguered sigh accompanying the drawn-out words. He moves to get out of the cab. He’s standing on the sidewalk in front of a large, brown, non-descript building (funny how Harry hadn’t even noticed their surroundings) and Harry thinks he’s about to shut the door and walk away when suddenly he ducks back inside the car, flashing Harry a mischievous smile.

“One last thing, I forgot.” He grabs Harry’s hand from where it rests on the stickshift and presses his lips gently to the back, the touch sending electrical shocks through Harry’s arm, before gently dropping it back in Harry’s lap and darting out of Nancy’s interior. “Alright. Bye!”

“That’s cheating!” Harry shrieks after him.

Louis blows him a second kiss. “Too bad, Harold!”

Yes, he thinks as he watches Louis disappear into the courthouse, running his fingers over the ghost-imprint of Louis’ lips on his hand. He could get used to this. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> the brooklyn ice cream factory is a real place n it's very good and you should all go there. similarly, there is an ikea in Red Hook but it's not open 24/7, sorry  
> and the Brooklyn Bridge has quite a nice walkway. but don't walk on it at three in the morning, please. stay safe kids.  
> thanks for reading!!


End file.
